


Super Mega Humanstuck Felt Mystery Angst Bonanza

by determunition



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Existential, Humanstuck, Intermission, M/M, crackfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 10:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11918640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/determunition/pseuds/determunition
Summary: Itchy moves into a strange apartment building, where the lobby wall is covered in clocks and almost every resident is rude, stupid, or both. After a strange dream and a myriad of contrived circumstances, he and his roommate begin to wonder if there's more to the building than it seems.





	1. Unanticipated Lethargy

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is a story I wrote kind of a while ago, but I wanted to finally post it for your enjoyment! Feel free to comment on this purposefully contrived ridiculousness!

Itchy awoke feeling noticeably sluggish. He didn't know why that particular sensation was the most astounding to him, as the reason seemed clear. He had slid forward off of the driver’s seat of his car, which was currently parked, and had fallen asleep at some point that he couldn't remember. His head felt cloudy as well, although his thoughts returned at an almost uncomfortably gratuitous pace. He had just driven to the city from his small hometown after deciding that he didn't need college to make his way in the world (he’d always possessed an infuriating amount of gumption). He needed a place to stay, however, and with the apartments being a bit out of his price range he had briefly hit a roadblock. That is until one of his friends, whom he strangely didn't remember much about, suggested he share an apartment with one of _their_ friends from high school. Itchy had grudgingly agreed (he didn't like needing other people to help him get ahead, another irrational preference) and was now in the dimly lit parking lot of the apartment building that he would live in. He shot a groggy glance at his watch, revealing that it was just past three in the morning. No wonder he felt so tired. However, his current state of being at that hour did strike him as odd. Somehow, he was under the assumption that he was more of a night owl. But Itchy just shrugged, chalked the oddity up to “haven’t had my coffee”, and went inside the building with his meager luggage in tow.

Itchy walked in with a legendary slouch. His back was sore as hell from being jammed against the front of a car seat for who-knows-how-long, so he didn't cross the threshold with the best of moods. He stopped uselessly rubbing his spine when he became aware of the incredibly distinct sounds that could be heard throughout the oddly small apartment building. Apparently a lot of the residents were night owls as well: Itchy heard a piano, some strange guttural shouting, a kitchen timer going off, he even thought he heard a gunshot somewhere. Overlaying all that ruckus was the collective noise of numerous clocks. They were all over the walls, each with a unique design. Itchy wondered why there were so many, and wondered even more why he wasn’t particularly weirded out by such a setup. In the end he shrugged. Maybe the landlord collected the damn things.

Itchy made his way up the stairs (no elevator was to be found), and nearly collapsed once he finally made it to the third floor. He was thrown off by how awful his stamina was, but once again alluded it to how tired he was. He looked for apartment 33, and once he came to the door he knocked in a vigorous and impatient manner (very akin to his personality). He didn't wait very long, as the door opened a mere few seconds after he knocked. A rather short, stout man opened the door.

“Hello! You must be Itchy! A bit late, I see, but don’t worry; I've always been very patient. Come in, come in.” 

Itchy entered the apartment and his roommate closed the door behind him.

“Apologies for the hasty greetings; I'm in no hurry. Please make yourself comfortable.”

Itchy raised an eyebrow. “Whaddya mean hasty? You said everything at a pretty normal speed.”

The young man stopped for a moment in thought. “Yes, I suppose I did. I don't know why I thought I was rambling. Anyway, just take a seat on the couch over there; proper introductions are in order.”

Itchy propped his luggage against the side of the couch, grimacing to himself. His roommate seemed really boring so far. He had such a droning voice; Itchy was struggling to keep his eyes open whenever the guy spoke. He sat down on the aforementioned couch, and his roommate shortly joined him.

“Tea?” he asked, pouring himself a cup as he asked. “It's caffeinated; you look like you need it.” 

Itchy shook his head. “I drink coffee.”

The man across from him shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Itchy got the introductions going. “So… you know who I am, it looks like, but I dunno who you are. Mind elaborating?”

It appeared the man didn’t hear him at first. That or he did hear him and was taking an infuriatingly long time to answer; Itchy couldn’t tell. After a few seconds, the man flinched with realization and carefully put down his teacup, looking embarrassed.

“Y-yes, please excuse my lack of conduct. My name’s Doze.”

Doze reached his right hand across the coffee table and Itchy shook it with gusto, throwing his roommate off guard.

“Goodness! You’re really exuberant, aren’t you?” Doze stated.

Itchy snickered. “What are you, a psychiatrist?”

Doze’s eyes narrowed. “No, just making conversation. Do you have a job?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Itchy asked, eyebrow twitching. 

In return Doze rolled his eyes. “It’s called small talk, also known as conversation, which you don’t seem to be very well-versed in. I don’t know how you ever came to be more than an acquaintance with my…. high-school friend…” He trailed off, looking thoughtful, like he was trying to remember something. Itchy didn’t pay too much attention to this, though. His roommate had hurt his pride, and he needed to get it back fast. He quickly formulated a simple but effective insult.

“Takes one to know one, fatso.”

Doze proceeded to silently stare daggers at Itchy for an uncomfortably long time. Itchy wondered if he was just trying to come up with a good comeback.

“You are a true bottom-of-the-barrel asshole. I really hate that I have to be a presence in your ignoble life,” Doze replied evenly, his words dripping with animosity but his face showing none; he seemed to stare straight through Itchy. “If you go down the hall, your room is the second door to the left. I’ll see you in a few hours, at a more acceptable hour to be awake.”

Itchy made a face. “Yes, _mother_. Jeez, you are no goddamn fun. Welp, see ya in a few hours… Drowsy.”

Itchy’s roommate bristled. “My name is Doze.”

“Oh, sorry. My bad.” Itchy stuck out his tongue and went to his room, taking his luggage with him.

Itchy was never a quiet observer. In fact, that phrase in conjunction with his name was practically an oxymoron. So while thoroughly insulting his roommate and indulging in his own vanity, Itchy never noticed Doze’s shoulders trembling ever so slightly as he deflected the slander; nor did he catch Doze’s face growing tenser as he stared deeper into space with every suppressed word.

Nor did he hear the soft, muffled slapping sound of Doze dropping his head into his hands as soon as he left the room.


	2. Poorly Selected Emotional Aid

Doze abhorred his irritating sensitivity. He had not been prepared for how his roommate would pester him, even though something reminded him that his friend (who he strangely did not remember very well) had informed him of Itchy’s rude demeanor. It was then that Doze realized he _had_ been prepared; or so he thought. He somehow had gotten the idea that he possessed a more stoic disposition, that what Itchy said would not bother him. In fact, Doze grew angrier with himself once he mulled over just how standard Itchy’s onslaught had been. Why would he get so worked up over Itchy simply calling him fat? He was well aware of his bodily proportions, and didn’t understand why an observation became an insult to begin with.

Doze pondered all this whilst sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the wall and doing little else besides taking the occasional sip of tea (which had long gone cold). This was just normal behavior for the abdominous young man; he had the propensity to do nothing more than sit silently, even if he was fully aware of its insignificance and/or the ennui that said inaction created. Doze’s eyes slowly looked towards the clock on the nearby wall: it read 4:30 am. Doze sighed. Despite his name, he always had trouble falling asleep; perhaps due to his nigh-constant state of rumination. He felt as if he needed to do _something_ other than sit staring into space. Only a few residents were up at this hour, and Doze had conceived a correlation above “acquaintance” with only one. He exited the apartment and slowly ambled down the stairs to the second floor. He stopped in front of apartment 26, and politely knocked on the door. He heard apprehensive movement on the other side.

“You aren’t that.... crazy guy with the knives, right?”

Doze raised an eyebrow. “Of course I am; because it’s incredibly logical to associate the term ‘crazy guy with the knives’ with the act of lightly knocking on the door.” He heard frantic scrambling behind the door. Doze sighed; the man on the other side of the door had no train of thought associated with sarcasm.

“I’m jesting. It’s me, Doze.” The frantic noises ceased, and Doze counted eight deadbolts turning; two more than the last time he had visited. Or at least what his mind told him when “last time” was. 

The door slowly creaked open to eventually reveal a hunched-over, pale, and oddly gaunt young man. His eyes were wide and well bloodshot, and his trench coat was riddled with sloppily done stitches and copious burn marks. He wore a nonplussed, vaguely bewildered expression. A chain was still in place to keep the door from opening all the way.

“What are you here for at this hour?” the man asked suspiciously.

“Well, partly because I cannot sleep, but I would also like to talk about my new roommate. I assume you've seen him?”

The man nodded jerkily. “Ohhhh, yes, yes I have! He’s an arrogant one. And he's your roommate? A crying shame, that is. Come in, come in. Maybe I can help.”

Doze gave a smile. “Thanks, Die.”

As predicted, the smile wasn't returned. Die didn't really do positive expressions. Doze steeled himself for more of the awkward demeanors and paranoia that seemed a universal constant of the other’s disposition.

“Apologies! Had I known you were coming, I would have cleaned up my apartment a little more.”

“That’s all right,” Doze muttered absentmindedly as he entered the dimly lit, fatigued apartment that seemed strangely unfamiliar to him. As he stepped around some occult-looking books, taking care not to ruin the mess of paper on the ground with Die’s tight, scrawling handwriting all over it, he noticed a broken magic 8-ball on a nearby table with a roll of duct tape sitting next to it.

Die caught him staring. “Crowbar told me that magic 8-balls are fraudulent. I wanted to prove him wrong. So I broke it open…” he trailed off and looked down at his feet in a defeated manner. “He was right. I-I… felt like when I broke it, I put something bad into the universe. So I'm trying to fix it, hoping that whatever deity monitors these things never notices.”

Doze sighed. “You shouldn't be so superstitious, Die. Or gullible, for that matter. I would bet you any money that somewhere on that thing are the words ‘made in China’.”

Die’s shoulders slumped even more than they already were. “ You’re p-probably right. Well, you came to talk about your roommate, so let’s um… do that.”

He briskly brushed some dust and cracker crumbs off of his couch.

“Apologies for the lack of cushions; I used them to make a fort.”

Doze took that statement in stride, as he did with every out-of-place, unexplained thing Die mumbled.

“That’s fine. So, my roommate.”

Die snapped to attention. “Ohhhh yes, I have some things to say about him. He’s a strange one.”

“Really? He just seems like a prick to me.”

“That he is. But in addition to that, the cards are all askew for him. They make no sense and have no correlation!”

“Well, I would hardly trust a tarot card reading in any situation, but I’m curious. What do the cards have to say?”

Die made a face as he tried to remember. “According to the cards, he has lived a life of crime, is close to death, and will one day oppose a higher power. I don’t get it.”

Doze raised an eyebrow. “A life of crime? That doesn’t really surprise me. At least half the tenants here don’t exactly have spotless records. But how can he be close to death? He’s probably younger than I am.”

“Yes, that’s one of the more tantalizing details. Not only does he appear to be younger than you, but he also doesn’t look to be ill or weak. In fact, he seems to be rather hyperactive.”

“Well, I can see that,” Doze scoffed. “It frames his douchebaggery well.”

“How has he displayed prickish behavior?” Die surreptitiously drew a beaten up notebook from his jacket pocket.

“Die, you are _not_ psychoanalyzing me,” Doze said, crossing his arms. “You’re good at observing mental behavior, but not so good at giving advice based on your observations.”

Die narrowed his eyes vapidly. “This isn’t for you; I have a paltry two notes regarding your roommate. I need more information, so I can better understand his behavioral propensities.”

“All right, then. Let’s get the obvious idiocy out of the way: he called me fat.”

Die scowled in distaste. “What a cretin. I assumed him to be at least a bit more creative.”

“Well, it’s not really the insult itself that is bothering me still. What’s bothering me is how weakly I took it. I nearly fell apart emotionally. Something as base and bland as what he said shouldn’t bother anyone, let alone myself.”

Confusion flooded Die’s owlish eyes. “Do you _want_ me to psychoanalyse you? You’re talking quite a bit about your own problems.”

Doze grimaced. He stared at the floor for an oddly long period of time in silence. “It's just… I feel like I should be impervious to that kind of bull. I feel like I should be… stronger.”

“Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there. I can never find the courage to stand up to Crowbar; he intimidates me. But he can be… q-quite… admirable…” Die’s eyes glazed over and he appeared lost in thought. He shook his head vigorously and snapped back to the present.

“Anyway, just don't let your roommate get to you. If you don't let him bother you, maybe he won't want to bother you anymore.”

Doze nodded hesitantly. “Okay…”

“On another note, have you gotten a lock of his hair yet?”

“Aaaaaaand this just got weird,” Doze said.

Die sighed impatiently. “You know what I mean! I need it for my doll.”

The sleep-deprived man drew a small white doll from another of his coat pockets, with one set of stitches down the middle that had obviously been undone and resewn many times. 

“I need a hair sample from everyone to make this work. This is my most important project; I have a gut feeling about it.”

“Die, omitting the fact that I don't think that doll will ever work, why do you have _one_ doll for everybody? I don't think that's how voodoo dolls work.” 

Die scratched his head. “I dunno… I just… _feel_ like I need to use the same doll for everyone. I _know_ that’s how it’s supposed to work. I don’t know how I know, but I do.”

“That sounds like a bit of a stretch. If there’s anything you shouldn’t trust more than anyone, it’s your own feelings.”

Die averted his gaze. “I think we’ve g-gotten a bit off track. We were talking about your roommate. This isn’t about me.”

“Oh… I didn’t mean anything by that…”

“I - I know!” Die assured him. “It’s just… well, it doesn’t matter. Is there anything else we need discuss?”

Doze shrugged. “What is there to talk about? He’s a douche. That’s it.”

“Then I guess we…..don’t need to be talking anymore…?”

“Yeah, it’s getting to that hour where normal people wake up. See you, Die.”

“S-sure, see you. Tell me if your roommate does anything other than be a selfish prick.”

“I will, Die. By the way, his name is Itchy. My roommate.”

Die’s face puckered. “What kind of a name is that?”

“No weirder than Doze, Die, or the name of anyone else in this building.”

“You might have a point there. Everyone in this building has some kind of odd name. It’s almost suspicious…”

Doze rolled his eyes as he walked out the door. “Die, the extent of your paranoia never ceases to amaze me. Goodbye!”

Die weakly raised a hand and splayed his fingers in a gesture of farewell.


	3. Charms and Chartreuse

Itchy had just come back from grocery shopping. That was the sentence crammed into his head as he stood in the lobby of the apartment building, arms full with three paper grocery bags. He didn’t know why an obvious situation was something to be reminded of, but just shrugged and continued towards the staircase that led to Doze’s apartment. On the first step, however, Itchy noticed a silver key with the number 22 engraved on it; probably an apartment key. Itchy thought about picking it up, but decided that whoever had lost it would probably come looking for it later. Plus, he didn’t really want to put down his grocery bags. Itchy left the key and continued upward.

As he approached the stairway landing for the 2nd floor, he was stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of a curiously short young man standing before an apartment door labelled 22, going through his pockets with a somewhat feverish air about his person. Itchy could not help but investigate (though he had a feeling he knew what the situation was).

“You doing alright there, little guy?” Itchy asked.

The small man turned to face him, revealing bright but worried eyes on a flushed face.

“Not particularly, heh!” he responded tactfully, managing a chuckle and a wide smile. “I seem to have lost my key! Not the best situation, I'm afraid. Hee hee!”

He continued to pat himself down, continuing to giggle as he did so. There was an adorable confidence about him that seemed familiar to Itchy.

“I saw your key at the bottom of the stairs; I’ll go get it for you,” Itchy said quickly, finding it difficult to keep composed under the other man’s cheery gaze.

The other predictably giggled. “You don't have to-”

But Itchy was already off, rushing down the stairs at a speed he never knew he could possess; the world seemed to slow around him. He reached the bottom of the steps, snatched up the key, and brought it back to the second floor in a matter of seconds.

“Here you are, little guy,” Itchy said, no evidence of the sprint in his breathing. He bent down before the smaller man and held the apartment key in the palm of his hand. The man seemed dumbstruck, his cheeks flushing redder.

“Goodness me! That was very impressive! Thank you, I suppose. I don’t know how I could have lost my key in the first place…” he took back his key, half lost in thought while Itchy stood looking him up and down.

The short man noticed Itchy still standing before him.

“Oh! I’m… not really in need of further assistance! Sorry to sidetrack you!”

Itchy grinned. “Don’t worry, this wasn’t even close to a waste of my time. Name’s Itchy, by the way,” he said, sticking out his hand.

The other’s simper didn’t falter. “Hee hee! That’s a funny name. Mine’s Clover!”

He shook Itchy’s hand in a vigorous manner, which Itchy returned in kind. Clover’s name paired with his personality seemed to spark something of a memory in Itchy, but his mind quickly perished the thought.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Itchy said, regaining his footing.

This statement caused Clover to break down into another fit of giggles. “Ohh, yes indeed! I’ve always loved charms, you know. Like this one!”

He held up a four-leafed clover, which was hanging on a chain around his neck.

“Is that supposed to be a play on your name?” Itchy asked.

Clover giggled. “No, silly! Well, I suppose that's an added bonus, but I like to think it gives me luck!”

Itchy had never really believed in those sorts of things, so he responded skeptically. “How do you figure that?”

“How else would I be so lucky?” Clover retorted with confidence. Then he took a more thoughtful stance. “Although, my luck hasn't really been up to snuff as of late. Strange. Perhaps I need to use more charms…”

“Well, you ran into me, didn't you? I'd say your luck’s picked up quite a bit,” Itchy said. 

Clover looked at him with an intrigued yet bewildered expression in his eyes. “Goodness! Was that forward, or am I over-exercising my imagination? We've known each other for all of five minutes!”

“If that's your problem, then why don't we get to know each other better some other time?”

Clover’s face lit up anew. “Oh, yes! That's a wonderful idea! You could come back here, over to my apartment! What say we meet… in two day’s time, in the afternoon.”

Itchy shrugged. “I'm not too good at waiting, but if that works for you it works for me too.”

“Alright; I look forward to it! Hee hee!”

After Clover went inside his apartment, Itchy regathered his grocery bags, realizing how sore his body was in the process. He was surprised, as the only recent physical activity he had engaged in was running to get Clover’s key just a few minutes ago.

_Clover…_

The small man seemed so familiar to Itchy, and yet his mind reminded him that before today, he had never seen Clover in his life.

Itchy knocked with his foot, still not wanting to put down the grocery bags. He proceeded to wait all of two minutes before the apartment door was opened.

“What the hell took you so long?” Itchy snapped, pushing past his impassive yet brooding roommate. 

“What took you so long?” Doze retorted. “You're one of the most impatient people I've met! And you certainly weren't too intrigued at the task of grocery shopping, either. Did something hinder you?”

Itchy turned away fast so Doze could not see his flushed cheeks. “What? Nah. There was just… traffic! Yeah! Real bad traffic.”

Doze raised an eyebrow. “The store is one block away.”

Itchy quickly deposited the groceries onto the kitchen counter and made for his room. 

“Guess I'm a polluting asshole then I'm tired as hell, bye!” Itchy rambled out as he closed and locked his door behind him, leaving a very suspicious Doze in his wake.

Itchy hadn't been lying completely; he was very tired. He kicked off his shoes and flopped onto his bed as his eyelids grew heavier, and barely crawled underneath the covers before falling into a deep sleep.

\-----------------

The first thing Itchy saw when he opened his eyes was green. It wouldn't be the last color he saw, either. He was lying down on a particularly barren bed (also green), and felt as if he had been lying there on his back for some time. He propped himself up on his forearms, and jumped a little at what seemed to be his own body. It was as green as the rest of the room around him, and when he sat up higher he found that he was the first in a line of people in beds identical to the one he was in; all with the same garish complexion as himself. Something tugged at his consciousness, telling him that this wasn’t real, that it was only a disconcerting illusion… Itchy had a difficult time believing this claim.

The man lying adjacent to him caught his eye particularly. He looked as if he would never wake up, almost appearing to be in stasis. But what got Itchy was that he had such a resemblance to Doze. The man held the same unreadable face, the same build, everything. Only the man Itchy looked upon now looked much more… vulnerable. Much more susceptible to ridicule...

Memories came, flowing into Itchy’s consciousness like water from a broken dam. Suddenly he could name every one of the sleeping individuals in the room, he knew why everything was green and why everyone looked weird without hats on and why he had hit it off so well with Clover. In that moment he understood almost everything, and wanted nothing more than to wake everyone else up and end whatever shared nightmare he had woken up from. But before Itchy could act, he heard an all-too-familiar voice behind him.

“ _It is fruitless to cheat at a game you cannot win_ ,” said the man with no face.

Itchy’s mind sank back into oblivious dormancy.


	4. An Askew Presumption of Compatibility

Doze heard his roommate scream, but did nothing about it. Itchy was most likely having a bad dream, and who was Doze to stop psychological torment on one who deserved it? Doze shivered at his introspection. _God, I am a terrible person_ , he thought. Doze went to Itchy’s bedroom door and knocked, knowing from earlier that it was locked. 

“Are you alright?” Doze asked.

The door was unlocked and thrown open in a matter of seconds, Doze flinching at it flying open. Itchy was in a cold sweat, trembling in the door frame with eyes red from… tears?

“W-what do you care?” he shot back.

“You sounded as if you were having a bad dream. If you would like to talk about it -”

“No.” He cut Doze off. “S’none of your business, nerd. Can’t remember it anyway,” he mumbled. pushing past Doze and into the kitchen where he began making coffee.

Doze followed him quietly, waiting patiently for Itchy to get reoriented. The blonde man waited for his coffee, tapping his fingers on the counter in a high-strung manner. A few minutes later the machine beeped, signaling that it had finished its task. Itchy poured himself a cup of coffee and slurped thoughtfully. 

“Actually..” he mumbled around his cup, “I do remember something about it.”

“What do you remember?” Doze inquired evenly.

Itchy took another sip of coffee. 

“Green.”

Doze raised an eyebrow. “Green?”

Itchy nodded. “Yup. That’s all I remember. Funny, coulda sworn it was all there right when I woke up. Now there’s nothing ‘cept this garish green color. Even that’s fading now.”

Doze wanted to ask more, but then the landline rang. Doze walked to answer it, but Itchy picked it up first.

“Itchy -” Doze hissed.   
“‘Ey. Who’s this?” Itchy asked, sipping coffee like the prick that he was. Doze’s eye twitched involuntarily.

“Oh yeah! Pardon my manners. Name’s Itchy. I’m Doze’s roomie.”

“Itchy..” Doze seethed, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Deuce, huh? Well, you gotta know Doze pretty darn well if you got his number. Whatcha calling for?”

“Itchy, give me the damn phone.” Doze put every ounce of venom he could muster into those words. 

“You want Doze? Well, in that case, I won’t keep you from ‘im. He seems pretty excited to talk to you!”

Doze froze up. “Why, you -”

“Here you go, ‘roomie’,” Itchy interrupted, handing Doze the phone with a shameless grin plastered across his face. Doze ripped the phone from his hands with murder in his eyes. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Hello, Deuce.”

“Hiya, Doze! Wanna come to my apartment and hang out?” came the cheerful reply.

Doze sighed. He had never truly enjoyed Deuce’s company, so he didn’t know why the guy was still wanting to get together. Doze thought Deuce too… simple. He had a childlike naivete that stopped Doze from having any sort of intelligent conversation, and the activities he liked to partake in when “hanging out” were the sort of games that one would play with a child. But similar to a child, Doze would feel like scum if he declined Deuce’s offer. So he decided to humor him.

“Sure. I will be at your apartment in five minutes.”

“Yay! See you then!” Doze heard the phone click at the other end and hung it back on the receiver, unable to refuse the disarming enthusiasm expressed by the man on the phone. 

“Sooooooooooo,” Itchy said, pouring what was probably his third cup of coffee. “Who’s Deuce? Your boyfriend?”

Doze made a face. “What? No. He just…. really likes me. For some reason.”

Itchy snickered. “Dude, he’s totally into you.”

“Well, I’m not into him! Besides, you’ve never seen him; you don’t understand how he is. He’s not mature enough to have a relationship.”

“Hey, I know what I heard when I talked to him. Way I see it, he’s infatuated and is just playing innocent so you’ll hang out with him.”

“That is not the case!” Doze retorted angrily. “I have to go to Deuce’s apartment. Platonically!”

Itchy chuckled behind his coffee cup. “Sure, man. Have fun.”

“This is not over!” Doze yelled over his shoulder on his way out the door. The last thing he heard was Itchy choking on his coffee from his immature chortling. Doze was satisfied with that development.

\--------------------

When Doze knocked on the door of apartment 24, he was answered in an extremely timely manner. The door opened to reveal a short, stout man with shining eyes.

“Doze!” Deuce interjected, throwing his arms around the slightly taller man’s torso. Doze started a bit. He always had trouble getting used to Deuce’s total lack of personal boundaries; especially since he hung out with Die, who wouldn't touch anyone if his life depended on it.

“Er… Hello, Deuce,” Doze replied awkwardly, stepping into the apartment once Deuce let go of him. The place was a mess, sort of like Die’s, but with a much lighter atmosphere. It was not as much a depressing, abandoned chaos but more akin to the bedroom of a lazy child. There were playing cards and candy wrappers strewn all about the floor, and Doze resisted the urge to comment upon the situation. Knowing Deuce, he probably didn’t actually care.

“So whaddya wanna do?” Deuce asked, rocking back and forth on his feet.

Doze shrugged. “I do not know. You choose.”

Deuce’s face scrunched up in thought, then lit up as he received an idea. “I know! We can play Pictionary!”

Doze narrowed his eyes in confusion. “What is Pictionary.”

“It's a super fun game where you draw stuff and everyone has to guess what it is!”

“But there is only the two of us…” Doze trailed off as Deuce came back into the room with a purple box that most likely contained the pieces to the game that Deuce seemed so eager to play.

“Right!” exclaimed Deuce, dumping the box’s contents onto the living room carpet. “So first, you roll this dice to see what difficulty word you’re gonna have! Then” he held up a small box full of cards - “you take a card from this box and whatever word is highlighted in the color you rolled with the dice is the one you draw!” Now he held a small, cheap-looking whiteboard in one hand and a small, equally cheap-looking hourglass in the other. “Then you just have one minute to draw a picture of your word so that the other player (that’s me!) can guess it. Got it?”

Doze did understand. However this seemed to be a game based around speed more than skill, which Doze wasn’t good at. But if playing this game concluded in Deuce leaving him alone for a while, Doze would stall his expression for the time being. 

“Yes,” he replied. “Would you like to go first?”

“Sure!” Deuce replied, and rolled the dice. “Yes! Yellow! That means what I’m gonna draw is gonna be a person, place, or animal!” 

Doze nodded, deciding to keep that in mind. Deuce drew a card from the box, adopted an uncharacteristically pensive expression for a moment, then picked up the whiteboard and its corresponding marker. “Could you start the timer for me, Doze?” he asked politely.

“Sure.” Doze said, picking up the small hourglass. “And… go.”

Deuce began frantically scribbling around on the board, and Doze craned his neck over Deuce’s shoulder to assess what he was trying to draw (but making sure not to invade the other man’s personal space in the process, of course). 

“Er… a turnip? An upside-down balloon? Flthulhu?” Doze squinted. “A rabbit?”

“Yeah!” Deuce cheered. “Took you long enough!”

_Because you’re awful at drawing_ , Doze wanted to say. But instead he just forced a smile and decided not to be a prick. “I suppose I am simply not a good guesser.” 

“Welp, now it’s your turn! Roll the dice!” Deuce encouraged. Doze rolled the colored cube, making an honest attempt to be invested in the anticipation of the result of his roll. It landed on green. Deuce made a sympathetic face.

“Aw, green means that you’re gonna get a hard word. But you’ve never played before, right? That’s not fair. Wanna roll again?”

Doze shook his head. If he was going to play this game, it might as well be made somewhat challenging. “I believe I can handle this situation,” he answered, drawing a card from the box.

Deuce shrugged. “Okay! As long as you’re fine with it.”

Doze stared down the card in his hand for a literal minute. He nodded to himself in thought; he could draw the word on the card.

“All right, Deuce,” Doze said, “I am ready.”

“Great!” exclaimed Deuce. “You’re going in three.. two.. one!” The energetic man flipped the small hourglass and the sand began to pour.

Doze fancied himself a meticulous drawer; not that he drew very much. It wasn’t too long before all of his attention was focused onto what he was drawing. Time seemed to fly, and Doze couldn’t catch up. He was already doing something, and he did not wish to break away. It was a surprisingly blissful sensation. When he was finished, he looked up from the board to see Deuce playing Solitaire. He seemed to be losing. When he noticed that Doze was finished, Deuce crawled over and looked at the board with Doze.

“I still don’t know what it is,” Deuce confessed. “You were drawing that for maybe an hour. The time ran out, but you wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t get you to stop, and for a second I was kind of bummed that the game wasn’t going anywhere. But hey, you looked pretty happy just… drawing really slowly… so I decided to stop bothering you.”

Doze felt incredibly rude. “I’m… very sorry. I can get significantly invested in monotonous and meticulous activities, but I should not have ignored you like that.”

Deuce shrugged. “No worries. So… what was your word? Time? Sadness? Sleep?”

Doze looked down at what he had drawn. A man with his eyes closed in deceptive peace, wearing a suit and top hat, standing upright. He held a small teddy bear in his hands over his chest. Behind him was the imposing face of an antique clock, with roman numerals for its numbers. At random locations in the drawing were distorted music notes, wavy and ethereal. The drawing clawed at some foreign feeling in Doze’s mind, but did not manage to drag it into his consciousness.

“‘Lullaby’...” Doze responded, half lost in thought.

“‘Lullaby’?” Deuce asked, a confused look on his face. “I don’t see it.”

Doze couldn’t blame Deuce; he couldn’t really see anything resembling a “lullaby” in what he had drawn either, aside from maybe the music notes. He sighed. _Why is it so often that I find it difficult to understand myself?_

Suddenly, Doze heard Deuce’s apartment door unlock and open.

“Whoops!” Deuce said. “Lost track of time! Droog’s gonna have my head if this place isn’t picked up!”

Doze was about to say that it appeared to be too late to do anything about the state of the room when -

“Clubs, how many times have I told you to clean your sodding apartment?”

A taller, leaner, and somewhat intimidating man entered the room. He wore a black suit with a white tie and held a ramrod straight posture, his physical tact alone convincing Doze that the state of Deuce’s apartment was probably driving him mad. Deuce looked at the floor, seeming a bit ashamed.

“Sorry, Droog. I’ll pick it up, I promise.” 

The newcomer, apparently called Droog, finally decided to acknowledge Doze’s presence. “Who is this?” Droog asked nonchalantly. 

“Oh, that’s Doze! We just met recently; this is his first time over here,” Deuce answered eagerly. Doze got up from the floor as quick as he could manage and put out his right hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr…?”

“Droog,” the other answered, shaking Doze’s hand with a perfect amount of strength that didn’t exactly crush Doze’s hand, but made him a bit disconcerted. “Diamonds Droog.”  
Droog’s narrow, grey eyes bore into Doze’s wide, blue ones for some seconds.

“Clubs,” Droog said. “Pick up your apartment. I’m going to talk with Doze for a few minutes.”

“Okay, Droog. Whatever you say!” Deuce replied cheerfully. Doze felt something of a pit in his stomach, but did not understand why it was there. While Droog did strike an intimidating and possibly dangerous figure, Doze had no reason to fear him and was not the type to be anything more than awkward around new people. _So why am I shaking?_ Doze asked himself. _Why has it become so difficult to swallow, and why is my heart pounding out of my chest?_

Doze and Droog relocated to the kitchen, which was surprisingly clean save for some colored pencils and paper on the table. Droog lightly pushed these aside as he took a seat, and Doze sat across from him. Doze waited for Droog to speak, but the taller man was silent. So Doze decided to take upon himself the burden of making conversation.

“So… why did you want to talk to me?” Doze asked.

“Oh, no serious reason,” Droog replied. “I was simply under the impression that you needed room to breathe. You don’t seem the sort to genuinely enjoy Deuce’s company.”

Doze felt half embarrassed, half surprised. “Was it that obvious?”

Droog shook his head. “Not to Deuce. If you’re worrying that you hurt his feelings, rest assured that unless you outright claim your grievance he won’t notice a thing.”

“Okay.” The room became silent for a moment, sans Deuce scuffling around in the other room. 

“How long have you lived here?” Droog asked. “Meaning this building, of course.”

“I can’t remember, really…” Doze started before realizing that he was already compromising the conversation. “Well, I know that I’ve been here shorter than you and Deuce, at least.”

“Indeed, Deuce did imply just now that you’ve talked before.”

Doze nodded. “Only once, though. When I first came. We talked a bit, and I guess I said something that gave him the impression of friendship. I can’t for the life of me remember what…”

“Deuce is easily excitable,” Droog explained. “It doesn’t really matter what you said. If you acted cheery, Deuce saw himself in you. If you acted disinterested or quiet (which seems more likely in this situation), he’ll still want to be friends. Probably thinks he can brighten your life or some cal like that.”

“Oh,” Doze said. “I did not mean to get his hopes up.”

“Of course you didn’t. You didn’t do anything.”

“I understand that! I… well, no use dwelling on it, I suppose.” Doze found himself twiddling his thumbs in the following silence. Was that a habit of his? He wasn’t sure.

“Well,” Droog said, glancing over at the clock hanging on the wall above the table, “You probably want out of here. Deuce has most likely been wasting your time for hours by now.”

“I guess…” Doze replied, unsure. “But I will say I have genuinely enjoyed sharing company with you these past few minutes.”

Droog laughed dryly. “Really? That’s flattering. I’m not exactly at the top of my social game right now, to be honest.”

The stoutish man shrugged. “At least I can have a serious, intelligent conversation with you.”

“That I can sympathize with. My roommate’s a stabby bratchny, and the other two shoots I see on a regular basis are bloody stupid. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t practically cherish this awkward as hell conversation.”

“I have the same situation in terms of my roommate being an insufferable prick; however my only other acquaintance, while paranoid in every sense of the word, is at least interesting to talk to. I do not wish to patronize you, but you seem to be in a rather undesirable situation.”

“Indeed I am,” Droog agreed. “Actually I’d invite you to come over sometime, have a couple of drinks or something, but my roommate hates basically everyone in this building. Can’t say I’d blame him for the most part, but he’d be too stubborn to get to know a decent person; not that he’s an especially decent person himself. I don’t want to force you into a situation that will result in the harm of your pride and probably your physical being as well.”

Doze nodded. “I understand. As much as I would like to get to know you as a better acquaintance, I will not impose if the situation is too difficult. Besides, I do not drink.”

“Eh, should have known. You don’t seem like the kind of guy to have a high tolerance for that sort of thing.” Droog stood up from the table. “Well, you might as well get back to your apartment. Deuce won’t buy into the ‘we’re having a talk’ excuse forever.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” Doze agreed, getting up from his chair as well. “Oh, um… may I borrow one of those colored pencils for a moment?” Doze asked awkwardly. He figured that since he was close, he might as well slip Die a quick note about the fact that Itchy had had some kind of waking nightmare earlier. 

“Sure. You can keep it, for all I care. I don’t think Deuce will miss it.”

Doze mumbled a thank-you and scribbled a quick note in blue pencil on one of the blank pieces of paper on the table.

_Die -_

_Itchy had a nightmare involving green. I do not know if that means anything, but perhaps it would be wise to record this minor event just in case._

_\- Doze_

Upon reading the note over after completion, Doze cringed about how paranoid it sounded. If he was the recipient of the note he had just transcribed, he would think the writer crazy. But then again, Die would probably be much more intrigued by this development than Doze could ever be. 

Doze folded the paper closed and stuffed it into his pocket for the time being. He followed Droog out of the kitchen and back into the living room, where Deuce immediately directed his attention onto the man.

“Doze! Are you ready to-”

“ Deuce, I’m afraid Doze needs to get back to his apartment,” Droog answered shortly.

“Aww!” Deuce whined. “Well, don’t let me keep you! Come back anytime!”

“Sure, Deuce,” Doze answered in an ambiguous tone, whilst bearing an impassive yet pleasant expression. Droog opened the door, and Doze slowly left the apartment. 

“Do return,” The tall man conceded, though his cold eyes showed a flicker of desperation.

_Jeez_ , Doze cringed to himself.

\-----------------

After leaving the apartment, Doze came upon Die’s only to discover that there was already someone at the door: the landlord’s mechanic.

“Crowbar? What are you doing at Die’s door?” Doze asked inquisitively. It was then that he noticed the note in the taller man’s hands, which he quickly hid from the Doze’s sight.

“I should ask you the same thing,” Crowbar retorted, voice contemptuous and unwavering as usual.

“I am simply here to give Die a message,” Doze replied confidently. “You are aware that he does not trust any forms of electronic communication, yes?”

“Of course, of course,” Crowbar concurred, though his face told a different story. “What is the note for, if I may ask?” the man asked nonchalantly.

“Nothing of importance.” Doze replied as he briskly slipped the note under Die’s apartment door.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Crowbar retorted. _Goodness he is a terrible actor._

“Well, I will be seeing you,” Doze concluded, leaving the encounter as soon as politely possible. He did not enjoy talking with Crowbar under any circumstances. The man seemed perpetually irked by Doze’s presence, but Doze could never quite pinpoint why. 

Doze walked slowly up the stairs to the next floor, back to his apartment. Itchy would probably say something irritating and witless regarding Doze’s lengthy absence, and Doze wondered whether he could steel himself this time. 

_I will not let him get under my skin. I can handle him, I know I can._

Doze repeated such phrases to himself all the way up the stairs, all the way to his own apartment door.


	5. Conflict

It was becoming increasingly difficult for Itchy to contain his excitement in front of his roommate. In fact, he mentally admitted that if Doze was already aware of his ecstatic demeanor, there wouldn’t be much surprise. He had drunk so many cups of coffee in anticipation, and could not stop himself from twitching due to the caffeine rush. 

Today was the day he would go to Clover’s place.

“Do you require the carotid maneuver?” Doze asked.

Itchy sneered. “Hell no! ...what the hell is the kah-ruh… kah-rah… whatever the fuck, anyway?”

Doze waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind. I suspect your hyperreactivity to be from more than simply caffeine. Something important happening today?”

“None of your damn business,” Itchy snapped before emptying the last of the coffee into his cup. “Shit! We out of coffee already?!”

“It would seem,” Doze replied dryly. “Quite frankly, I say good riddance.”

“Well I say _bad_ riddance!” Itchy retorted around his mug. “Can’t we make some more?”

Doze pinched the bridge of his nose impatiently. “Though this may come as a shock, I care about your physical well-being. I do not drink coffee; therefore, you just chugged eight cups of coffee in total. That is not and will never be beneficial to your health in any way, shape, or form.”

“Ugggh… chitty chatty! Does the pretentious asshole wagon ever stop with you?” Itchy snarled, feeling irked and out of sorts. “I feel like I gotta remind you every day: you’re not my damned mom! If I wanna give myself a caffeine-induced aneurysm, let me give myself a goddamn caffeine-induced aneurysm!” Itchy’s eyes darted to the clock for a moment -

“Shit!” he hissed under his breath “I gotta go.”

“Go and do what, exactly?”

“Nothing important whatsoever, duh!” Itchy interjected as he dashed to his room and rummaged for a yellow shirt that didn’t have coffee stains on it. “I’d tell ya, but like I said before: none of your business!” Itchy half-assedly combed his hair into something resembling a style, and darted out the front door before Doze could ask any more questions.

Itchy sped down the stairs, taking them two by two and not holding the rail. Itchy couldn’t say that what happened next was unexpected. All it took was a careless plant of the foot only a couple inches too far out over the edge and all sense of balance came crashing down the stairs with Itchy. 

After falling to the ground floor via the staircase, Itchy ran back up to the second floor as fast as he could manage, ignoring the aching pain throughout his body. 

Itchy’s knuckles jackhammered against Clover’s door. He heard Clover’s bubbly voice on the other side.

“Just a moment! I’ll be there posthaste.”

Itchy stood wrapped up in ecstasy; he was so distracted by his own train of thought that he almost ignored the snipping of scissors that was uncomfortably close to his ear.

“What the hell!” Itchy exclaimed, whipping around at lightspeed. He found himself face-to-face with a terrified looking man in a beaten trench coat clutching a pair of metal scissors that one might find in the hands of a barber. He was also clutching a sizable chunk of blond hair.

“Did you just… sneak up behind me and cut out a piece of my hair?” Itchy asked, both confused and pissed off by that development. The man awkwardly stared at Itchy unblinking for some seconds with his dinner-plate eyes; kind of like Doze, except instead of hatred this guy’s eyes oozed guilt and regret. Before Itchy could properly reprimand this annoyance of a man, the man in question quickly absconded to the apartment two doors down. _So that guy is Clover’s neighbor_ , Itchy deduced. _I’ll have to ask him if that was as weird as I thought or just a normal fucking occurrence._ As Itchy tried to figure out if the spot where his hair had been cut was at all noticeable, the door before him opened to reveal the face Itchy had seen every time he closed his eyes in the past few days, the face that made sleep almost appealing at the prospect of seeing it in a dream. But Itchy couldn’t lose his cool to lust - at least not yet.

“How’s it going?” Itchy asked in what he deemed a slick, casual tone.

Clover charmingly raised an eyebrow. “Really? _That_ is your introductory phrase after two days of not seeing eye to eye?”

Itchy couldn’t help but snag at the opportunity to make a tasteless comeback. “To be honest, I don’t think we’ve ever seen each other eye to eye.” _Oh shit._ Itchy prepared to put his foot in his mouth.

Clover tittered into his palm. “You never cease being a source of intrigue! Do come in…” Clover trailed off for a moment as his bright eyes gazed up into Itchy’s visage. “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you look a bit irked. Anything you could tell me?”

Itchy ran his fingers through the back of his hair, trying to find the place where it was cut. “Well, I was waiting for you to answer the door, and this guy just snuck up behind me and hacked off some of my hair.”

Clover put a hand to his mouth. “Oh dear! I’m terribly sorry you had to endure that encounter…”

The two entered the kitchen, where a small table was set next to a window with its tinted curtains tightly drawn. Clover held Itchy’s chair for him as he sat down, and then took a seat himself. Itchy picked up the previous conversation.

“So, is that guy your neighbor, or... “

Clover sighed as he poured tea. “Yes. He cut some of my hair when I wasn’t looking as well. He’s a… peculiar individual. But I don’t wish to talk about him anymore. I want to talk about you!” Clover’s mysterious, disarming smile returned. “So! Do you live here alone, or are you rooming with someone?” 

Itchy thought for a moment, trying to decide whether he should lie or not. Clover could probably tell if he did; besides, if this relationship was going to last, that lie wouldn't hold for long. “Uh, I’m rooming with someone,” Itchy replied, trying his damnedest to sound passé. 

“Oh, really?” asked Clover. “Are the two of you… close?” An almost imperceptible raise of the eyebrows followed that question; Itchy caught it and laughed at the irony and discomfort of that thought. 

“Hah! Hell no! You kidding? Doze would rather kill me than -” Itchy didn't bite his tongue fast enough. _Damn it._

Clover clasped his hands together in excitement. “A-ha! Well, that certainly explains a lot! Crazy guy like you? Must be murder living in his mausoleum of an apartment!”

Itchy nodded and laughed, relieved that Clover shared his opinions. He seemed so gentlemanly that Itchy hadn’t been able to tell if him and Doze would get along or not. “Oh, for sure. I’m a ‘loud, disorganized egomaniac’” - here Itchy imitated Doze’s droning vocalization - “so naturally, Mr. Killjoy hates me. And when he doesn’t blankly stare daggers at me, he doesn’t give a flying damn about _anything_ going on around him.”

“Oh, but despite his absentmindedness, he is quite agreeable under certain circumstances,” Clover countered. “When I first ran into him, he was refreshingly polite in his introductions. I then decided to give him a riddle. You know, to break the ice. I do love riddles, you know. Anyway, when I first gave him said riddle, he just seemed frozen for the longest time. I hadn’t the slightest idea why! I waited patiently for five or so minutes, but he still didn’t move, or talk or _anything_ ; so I just left, feeling a little rude but then again, he didn’t try to stop me from leaving. But around the next morning I received a letter from him. I opened it, and inside was the answer to the riddle I gave him! Correct as well, I might add. And (this tickled my fancy) he posed a riddle of his own as well! Though back-breakingly difficult I managed to solve it, and I mailed him the answer; I also attached another riddle, as he had, just to see what would happen. After some weeks he replied with the answer and another riddle, and now this exchange has become a usual routine. I’ve gone to his apartment once or twice after I suggested we get to know each other better, but despite his written wit…. He isn’t all that interesting to listen to.”

Itchy normally didn’t listen when others launched into long, overblown stories that he didn’t ask for. But Clover’s charisma and tone made everything he said the most fascinating thing Itchy had ever heard. “Well, I guess he saves all his sassy comebacks for me, then. I feel sooo special,” Itchy joked. 

Clover scoffed. “Doze? Sassy? No two words have ever made less sense together! He must really have it out for you! And honestly, I can see why. You have such a rapier wit, such a _confidence_ about you! You’re such a rude scamp, but you’re totally confident in that persona! You’re so on-the-mark, so… quick! Doze seems to take longer to collect his thoughts, and therefore… whyever are you looking at me like that?”

Itchy broke his infatuated gaze. “Ah, no reason. Thanks for the compliments, even the kinda backhanded ones. I gotta say, there’s more than a handful I can pay you in return…”

“Oh?” asked Clover, leaning his elbows onto the table and resting his head on his hands. “Such as…?”

“Well, you’re polite, clever, funny, easygoing but also knowledgeable… and you’re goddamned good-looking.” Itchy couldn’t stop himself from letting out that last one. He also noticed how hot his face had gotten, and with slight embarrassment imagined how red it must look. Itchy expected Clover to giggle at this, as he did with all of Itchy’s antics. But instead, the shorter man cast his gaze to the floor and adopted a sudden guilty expression.

“What’s wrong, Clover?” Itchy asked. “DId I say somethin’ wrong?”

Clover looked deeply into Itchy’s eyes. “Do… do you really fancy me, Itchy?”

Itchy was thrown off-guard by this question. “What? It isn’t obvious? As much as I wanted to play it a little more cool, I’m practically mad about you!”

“O-oh…” Clover mumbled, downcasting his gaze again. His flushed cheeks grew a bit redder. “This is going to be quite awkward, then.”

Itchy cocked an eyebrow. “What? You straight or something?”

Clover chuckled nervously. “Oh, nothing like that! It’s just that… there’s someone else.”

“Wait, what,” Itchy reacted deadpan. “You mean you already had a boyfriend this whole goddamn time.”

Clover rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, yes. That is, in fact, the case.”

Itchy leaned back in his chair and threw up his arms. “Well, what a goddamn tease you are. Don’t make me think I got a chance when you’re already taken. That’s just goddamn rude.”

Clover flushed. “Well, when I met you two days ago, I… must admit I did fancy you. And sitting here, with you, for the past few minutes has not stalled my infatuation in the slightest.”

“So, you _do_ love me. Why don’t you just break up with this other guy of yours, then? Or if you don’t got the guts to do it, I can give ‘im what for,” Itchy quipped, cracking his knuckles. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you! Besides, it isn’t so simple. My boyfriend… he’s not the most forgiving of guys. His name is Cans, and… well, he’s a brute, but he’s surprisingly sensitive. I don’t want to break his heart or anything like that. He certainly wouldn’t respond any better to you; I’d be willing to bet he’d clock you through the floor if you were to confront him with what you feel for me. He’s quite the big fellow… and frankly, I don’t think you’d survive.”

“Oh,” Itchy said. “Oh, I see how it is. You know what? Fucking fantastic. Thanks for having me over. Really gettin’ the feeling that this has been a bonding experience.” Itchy got up from his chair and made his way towards the front door. 

“Wait! Itchy, please don’t leave. I really don’t want this to affect our relationship -”

“Affect our relationship?? Dude, it already has. You know how? Cause you just kicked me right off a cliff and into the friend-zone. Like, _300_ style. And it hurts, man. You wanna know where it hurts?” Itchy jabbed a finger to the center of his chest. “Right here. Right fucking here. You know what? You know where I live. Come on over, try to convince me that you’re not actually this fucking savage. But don’t expect me to answer the door. So long, babe. I’ll be spending the next week putting the puzzle pieces of my broken-ass heart back together.”  
Itchy threw open the door, and made to leave. 

“Itchy, there is really no need to be this melodramatic! This is becoming ridiculous.”

Itchy rolled his eyes. “Man, it got ridiculous the moment you started breaking up with me on our _first fuckin’ date_. See you around, unfortunately.” Itchy closed the front door behind him before Clover could retort further. He started up the stairs stiff and briskly, but as he ran the last minute over in his head he slowed to a stop. 

“Goddammit…” he mumbled to himself, rubbing at his temple with the heel of his palm in confusion. Itchy started up the stairs again, slower this time, features tensed and eyes fixed straight ahead as an attempt to abolish any emotional display his roommate could nitpick at once he returned.  
“Dammit…”


	6. Temporal Distortion and a Grudging Haircut

“I hypothesize this ‘nothing important whatsoever’ outing you left for really did fit your oral description, or you would not be so -”

“Can it, Drowsy.” Itchy appeared to be in a particularly unpleasant mood. This was not entirely out of the ordinary, but it made one curious. 

“What were you out doing, again?”

“God, does it take ten hours for sound to make it past your eardrums, too? None of your goddamn business. I'm sounding like a fuckin’ broken record at this point.”

It was then that Doze noticed a comparatively shorter patch of hair on Itchy’s person. “Ah. I suppose Die has something to do with this?”

Itchy looked dumbly yet irritably. “Who the hell is Die.”

“An acquaintance of mine. Lanky, gaunt figure, pallid, wide-eyed…”

“Oh, yeah. I saw him. Fucking cut my hair when I wasn't looking. You chummin’ it up with that guy comes as no fucking surprise. What's his fucking deal, anyway?”

Doze hesitated. Itchy would most likely give no regard to the ensuing explanation. But still he attempted to summarize. “Die is currently endeavoring to compose a voodoo doll of sorts, which pertains to every resident in the building. For this experiment he just so happens to need genetic samples from everyone in the -”

“Well that sounds fucking stupid. So long as this creepy bastard’s a friend of you, I hate his guts. I'm goin’ to my room. Don't fucking disturb me.”

“And what, pray tell, will you do in there? You haven't been sleeping lately, unless I am mistaken and obnoxious snoring can be overcome in the most miraculous of ways. Additionally, I know that with your high-strung demeanor, you will die of ennui in two hours or less.”

Itchy only deepened his scowl, and continued making his way to his room. 

“Your hair looks awful, you know. I must apologize; Die most likely cut more out of spite.”

Itchy scoffed. “Puh. I know you're not sorry. Just shut the hell up and leave me alone.”

“I can even out your hair for you,” Doze proposed after a moment of thought. 

Itchy let out a sharp bark of a laugh. “Like I'd trust you with a pair of scissors.”

“I am driven by the logic that if I were to perform any mischievous acts, then I would only feel an equal wrath later on. You may trust me. Or let your hair look stupid for a while. Your decision.”

Itchy’s eyes were searching for deception in Doze’s stiff, unwielding visage. When he found none, he simply threw up his arms in annoyed surrender. “Fine. What the hell, right?”

\-----------------

At Itchy’s demand, he sat in a chair directly facing the bathroom mirror in case Doze “tried anything.” However, Doze would not be “trying” anything immediately evident, but rather he wished to use this as an opportunity to get out what Itchy had been doing earlier and why he was so pissy as a result. 

“It would seem you made a deliberate attempt to cover this accident. I'd think you wouldn't care to take such an action.”

“Maybe I didn’t want you to notice it, huh?” Itchy grumbled. 

“One would imagine that you would remember by this point my penchant for noticing the smallest and most hidden of details. But then again, I suppose you cared to finally change your shirt this morning for the same reason, am I right?”

“Puh, no. If you think I could ever change myself to meet your stupid expectations, you'd be pretty damn selfish to think you deserve that.”

“Oh? And someone out there does?”

Itchy didn't answer that. Doze thought more on what he knew. Itchy had encountered Die, which meant that he hadn't left the apartment building, since Die was far too paranoid to ever leave. Die also lived on the second floor. It was a shot in the dark, but Doze considered every resident on the second floor and who Itchy could possibly connect with there. With this in mind, the answer seemed pretty obvious. 

“So,” Doze started. “I often trade riddles with one of the residents within this complex, and I received a particularly difficult one early this morning. Despite my prowess in puzzle solving, I unfortunately have not been able to complete it. Perhaps you could take a look after we are finished here?” Itchy’s features twitched to the slightest degree. 

“Why the hell would you ever think I’m any good at that shit? Besides, if Super-Einstein-Sherlock you can’t figure it out, then how do you know this asshole isn’t toying with you?”

Doze cocked an eyebrow in pseudo-curiosity. “Asshole?”

A bit of nervous color came into Itchy’s cheeks at this, but he quickly spoke around it. “Yeah. Anyone who can stand to hang out with you for more than five minutes has gotta be on the same level as you in terms of asshole-ness.”

“Hmm. Would that not make _you_ an asshole, then?” Doze asked casually, keeping a straight face with ease.

“The hell do you mean?” asked Itchy.

Doze slowly shrugged his shoulders up and then back down. “Well, you _are_ my roommate. Though neither you nor I have any positive feelings towards this setup, you unwittingly spend more time in my presence than anyone I maintain contact with.”

“Well… at least I don't fucking have a choice. Where the hell else am I gonna go?”

Doze chose not to acknowledge that retort. “And why would you assume that this alleged ‘asshole’ is toying with me? While I have met said person and know of their distinctly non-asshole personality, you cannot know anything beyond your own assumptions. For all you know, they could be someone like Die.”

“No, he's nothing like that bastard. But I'm sure he's on the same level of fucking pestilence. I bet he doesn't give a damn about anyone, so long as his charmed-ass life remains untouched.” Here Itchy seemed to realize his slip up, and here Doze also gained a great amount of information. He knew exactly who Itchy was talking about now. The tricky part was making sure Itchy didn't shut himself up for good. 

“How long were you and Clover together?” Doze asked casually. 

“Whaddya - oh. Fan-fucking-tastic. I'm not spilling.”

_Hmm_. This would take some greater skill. Doze needed to ask more appealing questions. 

“Clover can be… flirtatious, can he not?”

“Hmph. You don’t know the half of it. He’s so goddamned cute, and his annoying ‘good manners’ only help that!”

“Though I have noticed that Clover only suggests a relationship when he truly feels for his other in any given circumstance. Why, then, did it end so easily for you and him?”

“...” Itchy hesitated, looking pained in his expression. “...Goddammit. We only had one date.”

“Pardon?” Doze asked, ceasing his trimming.

“I was ready to fucking… devote my life to him out of my stupid, stupid lust… and he just out of nowhere dumps me. Said he had another boyfriend all along. I flipped the hell out, said some stupid shit… goddammit.” Itchy dropped his head into his hands. Doze stood in silence, not daring to say anything. Itchy seemed to be showing genuine emotion here, and Doze absolutely did not want to botch this opportunity.

“Go on, you sullen shit. I know you want to fucking wallow in my self-hatred and embarrassment.”

“... Itchy… I do not wish to ridicule what is clearly a heartbreaking situation for you.”

“Why? I sure didn’t hesitate to tease you when it came to a similarly suggestive situation,” Itchy retorted, likely referring to the situation of Doze and Deuce.

“Because I don’t want to continue fueling the karma train. If I tease you, it is only at my own expense. Aside from that… I am not made of stone. Shocking as it may seem, I do hold the capacity to care for others.”

“Then why are you such an asshole?”

“Well, quite simply, because you are an asshole. What defines an asshole is relative, anyhow, but that is besides the point. Since we are roommates, and in one way or another our thoughts and feelings will affect each other as a result of that, I do not think it wise to torment each other to the point of toxic animosity. One might argue that that point has already been reached, but it should never have been reached in the first place. It is ridiculous that we insist on fighting our inner demons alone despite having each other’s company. If that behavior is continued, our own reputations with each other will be likewise affected as a result.”

The two sat and stood respectively in silence. The corners of Itchy’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. 

“You talk way too much, you know that?” he asked before lightly sighing. “But I guess there is something to all the bull you just spewed. As much as I love messing with people, it just feels so goddamn negative with you.”

“It’s good that you took that at least somewhat seriously, I suppose,” Doze replied, rolling his eyes. “Unlike you, I do not pride myself on my ability to tease or piss off others. I am more comfortable remaining a passive variable. I do hope that we reach that sort of understanding.”  
Itchy scoffed. “Ha! Nothing so tame. I’m not gonna change myself to fit your goody two-shoes expectations, but I’ll be a little nicer I guess. So long as you stop downright shaming my defining traits, that is. Now, kindly finish up this haircut; I’m getting serious pins and needles over here.”

Doze lowered the pair of scissors. “I’m finished. You are free to go.”

Itchy snickered as he jumped out of the chair. “Damn, wanna cut the formality? We’re goddamn _roommates_.”

“Watch that you do not downright shame my defining traits, Itchy,” Doze retorted, his mouth curling into the beginnings of a smirk.

“Whoa! You can smile?” Itchy joked.

“Shocking, I know,” Doze quipped back.

“Well… thanks, I guess,” said Itchy. “Am I gonna have to worry about this Die asshole anymore?”

Doze shook his head. “No. Die only needs one sample for his doll.”

“Huh. Whatever. So long as he leaves me the hell alone, I don’t really give a damn about his voodoo shit.” Itchy left the bathroom, and Doze could hear his bedroom door closing behind him, the stinger of a lock turning notably absent. 

_Hmm. That went well. Almost unnaturally well…_

Doze ambled into the kitchen, and noticed a small piece of paper just in front of the door. He bent down and picked it up, noticing its crumpled and cheap quality. It was a note, and judging by the sloppy and tight-lettered handwriting it had come from Die.

_Doze -_

_I have finished the doll. It would mean much if you were to come and bear witness to my attempts to use it, as a measure of safety… and acquaintance. Please make haste._

_Die_

“Itchy!” Doze called. “I will be out for an indeterminate duration. I should not be gone for too long.”

“Kay!” came Itchy’s muffled reply. With that explanation out of the way, Doze began his trip to the second floor.

\--------------------------------------

“Ah! Doze! It’s good that you’re here. Come inside, quickly!”

Die ushered Doze into his apartment, which had been turned upside-down to make a large empty spot of floor at the center of the living room.

“This is… in case anything happens and we need a lot of room,” Die explained hastily. Doze nodded and followed him into the clearing.

“Right,” said Die. “I’m… not sure how exactly this will work. My theory is that it works as a normal voodoo doll, except rather than the victim pertaining to the DNA sample, the subject pertains to what pin is being used.” Here Die held up a fistful of pins with different colored heads. “I have chosen colors that I subliminally understand to be connected with whichever person they pertain to. Don’t ask me how I know; I just have very potent gut feelings about all of these.”

“They look like billiards,” Doze remarked, noticing some pairs sharing the same color while one possessed a defining white stripe.

“Yes… curious, is it not?” Die asked. “Now, I am going to attempt to use the doll. Note anything out of the ordinary in my journal.” Die fished a fat, beaten, small journal of his coat pocket, opened it to a blank page, and handed it along with a pen to Doze. “Kindly do not rifle through; you shouldn’t need to look at any of the other pages.”

“I would never,” Doze assured him, “but I am a very slow writer and artist. I do not know if you can trust me to note any phenomena as efficiently as you are imagining.”

“Ah,” Die replied, nodding. “That… is a bit of an issue. Well, I suppose you could try. Just be very careful.” Die handed Doze his doll, and held out the pins in front of him. 

“Choose a test subject,” Die said, a very alien and sadistic look passing his wide, dull green eyes. Doze understood what he was implying. They had just reconciled, but… it was too tempting. He would never know anyway. “Alright,” Doze conceded, “which one is Itchy’s?”

Die smiled; it was the first time Doze had seen him with such an expression, and it was unnerving. “Solid. Yellow.”

“Um… Die… might want to practice smiling,” Doze quipped nervously, taking the pin with the yellow head that didn’t have a white stripe. Die dropped his crazed expression, blushing in embarrassment. 

“Oh… sorry. I d-don’t usually have much… cause to be h-happy so I uh… don’t suppose I get much practice,” Die mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. Doze felt a twinge of regret; he hadn’t thought Die would take such a ridiculous criticism so seriously. 

“Well… I suppose I’ll start then,” Doze said to break the silence. Die hastily prepared himself for note taking. “Here goes.” Doze plunged the yellow-headed pin into the leg of the doll. Suddenly, his entire vision was becoming clouded with a bright green. It felt like a raw, mysterious energy was surrounding his entire body. Doze caught a quick glimpse of Die’s shocked visage, and forced out a small scream before he could no longer see the world around him.

Wherever Doze had ended up, it was very green.

Everything sans the windows, from the floor to the carpet to the walls to the ceiling, was a bright, lurid chartreuse. Doze heard a constant ticking in his ear, the sound of a thousand clocks working away to the next hour. But what caught Doze’s eye was the truly horrific scene before him.

It was all very confusing. Neither of the two people in front of Doze looked human, mainly due to their impossible complexions. One, a tall, familiar looking man in a black suit, had a jet black pigmentation which seemed to have a slight shine to it, as if it was a hard shell rather than skin. The second man, who was disturbingly dead on the floor with bullet holes perforating his chest, had a viridescent complexion which almost perfectly matched the color of the building. He wore an equally glaucous suit, and a yellow construction hat which bore the number “1” in a white circle at the center. The first man, who noticeably wielded a smoking gun and a cuestick, gave Doze a confused yet dangerous expression.

“What are you supposed to be?” the man asked, his voice as familiar as his person. Doze blinked a couple times to bring himself back into the present; he was in a severe state of shock.

“I’m… human…” he breathed, eyeing the man’s gun with caution. The man in turn glanced at the white doll that Doze was clutching in his hands. 

“Are you with the Felt?” the man asked carefully. Doze blinked.

“I… I don’t know what that is…”

“Then why do you have Die’s doll?”

Doze was surprised by this. “How do you know who Die is?”

“He’s in the Felt. Just like this guy,” the man answered, gesturing to the man on the ground with his cue.

Doze turned his gaze to the green man. He looked very, very familiar. “Who… is he?” Doze asked.

“Itchy. Bastard’s fast as hell; likes giving us a hard time.”

Doze involuntarily gasped. The man on the floor did look terrifyingly similar to his roommate. But then why did he look like…that?

“Hey, guy,” the man said, getting Doze’s attention. “Who are _you_ , anyway? Just have to make sure you’re not as much a threat as you seem; though you’re looking pretty damn suspicious so far,” he remarked, tapping his foot and tightening his hold on his cue.

“O-oh… um, my name is Doze,” Doze answered nervously, hoping that didn’t mean anything. The tall man’s expression went from danger and confusion to surprise and confusion.

“What? That’s impossible. Doze is slow as hell, and he doesn’t look anything like you.”

Doze tensed. “Wh-what do you mean?”

The tall man narrowed his cold eyes. “Are you from some messed up alternate timeline or something? Sure would explain everything and nothing at all.”

Before Doze could further answer/question, he was interrupted by what sounded like a two-way radio, even though there were none in sight. 

“Droog! Where the hell are you? We need someone to take out Stitch!” came an angry, raspy voice that Doze didn’t recognize. However, this new voice called the tall man “Droog”... that certainly explained why he sounded so familiar. This “other Droog” pulled out a deck of cards, turned his gun into a card(?!), and pulled out two more cards. 

“I just took out Itchy. Be patient; I’ll be there in a few minutes,” other-Droog answered, speaking… into the cards? “Right, I don’t have time for this cal right now. So long as you don’t plan on giving me the axe, I never saw you. Besides, these stupid time shenanigans are your problem, not mine. I’ve got a job to do.” Other-Droog slipped the radio-cards back into the deck of cards, which he then slipped back into his pocket before striding away down the hall, back straight and cue grasped tight in his right hand. Doze stared after him, frozen in silence. With shaking hands he managed to yank Itchy’s pin out of the doll. The same bright green energy as before enveloped Doze and suddenly he was back in Die’s apartment, staring into Die’s terrified, worried face.

“D-Doze!” Die cried, rushing over to the shocked, stout man. “Are you alright?! Wh-what did you s-see?! Oh, god, I thought you… I thought it...”

Doze couldn’t find the strength or ability to answer, at first. He felt paralyzed. “I… I’ll draw it for you,” he answered softly, shakily handing the doll and its pin back to Die. Die pocketed the two and handed Doze his notebook and pen. 

“Um… I will need… color…” Doze murmured. “If you have… a lot of green… that would be best. I believe I’ll need a few other colors, though.” 

“S-sure, Doze,” Die replied. “Do… do you need to lie down?” the lanky man asked worriedly, wringing his hands nervously.

“No… I think I’ll be alright. The shock is passing, and drawing will help me to better sort everything out.”

“Okay…” Die mumbled, looking extremely guilty and flustered. “I… I’m so s-sorry. I had no idea it would d-do something like that.” 

Doze saw a growing regret in the other’s eyes. “There’s no way you could have known that the doll would do that. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Die slowly turned his gaze back onto Doze. He looked like he might cry. “If you s-say so… I don’t think I can forgive m-myself, though… this was all my fault… wh-what if it… what if it did worse… what if you couldn’t come back… no, no, how could I be so - w-what?!” Die’s self-loathing angst was interrupted by Doze putting his arms around Die’s torso and holding him in a tight embrace.

“Die… this wasn’t your fault,” Doze said. “I hate it when you’re so quick to heap all blame upon yourself. If you would just stop hating yourself and everyone else… maybe you’d have more chances to be happy…” Die stumbled over his words, unsure of what to make of the situation. Doze knew that Die hated being touched, but after going to a strange world that threatened to say that he was living a lie… Doze needed some proof that at least Die, his only true friend in this whole mess, was real. Besides, neither of them could have predicted that the doll would lead to… _that_.

“D-Doze…? Are you… crying?” Die asked. Doze released Die and ran his fingers down his cheek. _When did I start crying?_ “I’m sorry, Die,” Doze apologized softly. “I know you don’t like to be touched.”

A bit of color came into Die’s cheeks. “Um… actually… that felt kind of n-nice. It feels so long since someone did something like that for me...” 

Doze’s own face began to feel warm. “Well, I’m glad that I could provide something of value. I suppose I’ll get to sketching my findings,” he added on hastily, uncertain as to what he was feeling, the uncertainty magnifying his disconcertion.

“O-oh, yes. That… would be best,” Die replied, breaking eye contact and looking shyly toward the floor. Die went to get colored pens, and Doze sat himself onto the floor, ready to catalogue all he remembered, the color in his face very slowly, thankfully, palliating.


	7. Pie-Eyed

Itchy was busy mucking around on the Internet and doing nothing else when a jovial knock sounded at the apartment door. It couldn't be Doze, since he knocked much slower and lighter. The blonde man dashed to the door, being careful not to slip on the hardwood flooring with his socks.

The man at the door was much larger than Itchy, in both height and size. He was broad-shouldered, and possessed a robust torso. He wore a red sweater which had a white stripe running across the middle, and a white collar suggested the presence of a shirt underneath said sweater. He had a squarish jawline, and his eyes seemed somehow intense and friendly at the same time. He bore a humble, stoic smile which dwindled a bit once he set his eyes on Itchy.

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. Do you live with Doze?” the man asked, his voice cheerful yet low.

“Uhm, yeah, I’m his roommate. Name’s Itchy,” Itchy replied.

“Matchsticks,” the man returned, putting out his hand, which Itchy shook vigorously as he did with anyone he met. “I live in apartment 11, on the first floor. Well met, very well met.”

“Thanks,” Itchy said, surreptitiously shaking out his hand. Matchsticks shook hands with a strength equal in intensity to the speed at which Itchy shook hands. “But, uh, if you didn’t know about my moving in, then what’re you here for? Doze is out right now, so if you’ve gotta speak with him I’m afraid you’re gonna have to wait for quite a while,” Itchy chuckled, hoping Matchsticks didn’t mind him taking a dig at his roommate’s sluggishness. 

“Ah, yes, he does take awhile to catch up, doesn’t he? Anyway, the reason I came is ‘cause I’ll be having something of a get-together at my place tonight. I have ‘em pretty regularly, and always personally invite everyone in the building, ‘cause hey, the more the merrier. So… if you can come, that’s great. If Doze can come with you, even better; please relay the invitation to him, alright?”

Itchy shrugged. “Yeah, sure. I’m not doing anything tonight, and I sure as hell don’t know most of my neighbors. And don’t worry; I’ll be sure to drag Doze along,” he added with a snicker.

“Well, hopefully he can come of his own volition,” Matchsticks said in an oddly joking tone. _If that was meant to be funny, it really wasn’t…_ “If you’re _itching_ for new faces and shenanigans, I’m sure you’ll both have a great time.”

_Oh god. This asshole did **not** just make that shitty of a pun._ Itchy just couldn’t be polite and chuckle at a joke that awful.

“Uh, I’m sure I will, see you in a few hours then,” Itchy sputtered out hastily, ending the awkward and uncomfortable silence that usually follows a bad joke.

“Yep, see you _lighter_ ,” Matchsticks replied, flicking on a lighter that he apparently kept in his pocket all the time. _Probably just so he can make fire puns. Jegus._ Itchy waved goodbye in a pseudo-cheerful way while grimacing unconvincingly, but as soon as Matchsticks left he slammed the door, leaned up against it, and sank into a sitting position of pure disbelief and irritation. 

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Itchy remarked aloud to no one in particular. Did no one in this complex have at least _some_ likability to them? _Well, Doze… wait, what? His charisma’s probably been pushing up daisies for years. The hell did I think of him when scanning the people I know for likability? Eh, who gives a damn. I'm willing to bet I'll meet at least one guy on my level at this party._

Later, Doze returned looking impassive and blasé per the norm (though was it Itchy, or did his face have just a bit more color than usual?). Itchy had been waiting on the couch, playing on his phone to kill time.

“One of your neighbors came by while you were gone. Said he’s having some kinda party tonight.”

“Oh… that must have been… Matchsticks…” Doze slowly trailed off. He seemed weirdly despondent. But before Itchy could question him on the matter, he snapped out of it. “How do you like his sense of humor?”

Itchy cringed so hard it hurt. “Oh, _god_. Why does he make dad jokes and wear dad clothes?!”

Doze shrugged and smiled a little. “It's his defining trait, though he does not see it as something so negative, like some hypocrites seem to think.”

Itchy facepalmed. Doze would probably hold him to that one thing he said for eternity. _Literally_. 

“Well, I'm gonna go. You coming with me?” Itchy asked. 

Doze rolled his eyes. “Goodness me, no. I've been to one of Matchsticks’s parties and that is good enough for me. There just aren't that many people in this building I can intellectually connect with.”

“In other words, everyone’s a dumbass?”

“Yes. But hey, perhaps you might find a kindred spirit.”

Itchy’s lip curled. “Gee, thanks. But if you don't come with me, how will I know who’s cool and who to avoid?”

Doze stared in thought. “Yes, from my experience, some of the residents can be dangerous. While I'm not responsible for your well being, I do not want to open the door at midnight to some larger stiff carrying your unconscious, bleeding body.” At this statement Itchy thought he saw fear flash past the shorter man’s face, as if he had remembered something terrible. “Anyhow, for that reason I will begrudgingly join you.”

Itchy grinned. “Sweet. Can’t fucking wait.”

“...I can.”

\---------------------------

A few hours later, Itchy and Doze left their apartment and descended to the first floor. Itchy seemed in great anticipation over who he might meet, but Doze wasn’t holding his breath. Most everyone in the building was either stupid, rude, or a horrendous amalgamation of the two. Hence why Doze hadn’t come to one of Matchsticks’s parties since he was first invited.

“Great! Both of you decided to come! How ex- _light_ -ing!”

Matchsticks naturally flicked on his ubiquitous lighter in addition to his cringe-worthy wordplay. Matchsticks seemed to have a penchant for fire, in terms of both using it and exercising proper safety towards it. He was most likely the only resident in the building with a fire extinguisher in every room of his apartment (even the bathroom...why). But Matchsticks certainly had the cushiest apartment that Doze had bore witness to, and it clearly showed that Matchsticks simply lived to host parties. He was a very friendly neighbor, almost to a fault.

“Go on! Make yourself at home! If you need anything, just come find me,” Matchsticks said, giving Doze an unwelcome clap on the shoulder before leaving him and Itchy to their own devices. Their entrance hadn’t caused too much stir in the small crowd of people who were there, aside from the occasional “who’s that?” and “wow! I’ve only seen that guy in here once!”. Doze made his way to the bar at the edge of the kitchen, where he intended to stay for the majority of the night. Itchy followed him, probably because he was expecting some sort of description for everyone he didn’t know. Sure enough, as Doze sat down, Itchy flopped into the adjacent stool after grabbing a beer from the cooler nearby.

“Soooo… gimme the skinny. Who’s who?” Itchy asked, taking a loud slurp of his drink. Doze cringed at his lack of discretion.

“Right.” he nodded towards a very portly man with a terrible underbite, who was probably an inch or so taller than Itchy. “That’s Sawbuck. Nice guy; very sensitive. Not the brightest bulb, but he’s certainly less annoying than most of the residents.”

“He sure is the _biggest_ bulb,” Itchy joked, snickering. Doze cast him a scolding glance. “If you tease him, he will surely give the most miserable response. He is quite vulnerable.”

“Well, now I gotta. It’s just too easy. Why do you care so much anyway? Is it cause you -”

“It is because we as human beings are supposed to respect the feelings of others. Hence why many hate being teased as well as the idea of teasing, and hence why you are conventionally classified as a prick.”

“Ugh, fair enough. Who’re those BAMFs with shitty dental work?” Itchy pointed in the direction of Matchsticks’s billiard table, where two men were playing a game of eight-ball. One man had reddish brown hair, wore a light burgundy sweater, and had an evident underbite. The other’s hair was a more orange shade of brown, and he wore a black v-necked shirt with a rusty orange jacket over it. As opposed to the first man’s underbite, he possessed a subtle yet visible overbite. They were both about the same height, and while one was leaner than the other they seemed to share the same body type as well. 

“That’s Trace and Fin,” Doze answered, nodding first to the man in the sweater then to the man in the jacket. “I wouldn’t suggest shooting pool with them, unless you have a bloated wallet or an infallible ego. Even when they aren’t playing for money, they still hustle you into thinking you are winning before crushing you. They’re pool sharks of the worst and most legitimate description.”

“Sweet!” Itchy said, chugging more beer. “I’ve got an infallible ego! I’m bound to beat ‘em at some point!”

Doze rolled his eyes. “No. You are not. Anyway; the two behind us,” here Doze hitched his thumb over his shoulder gesturing towards a pair of taller and heavier set men mucking around in the kitchen, “are Eggs and Biscuits. They’re absolute buffoons,” he added, lowering his voice so as to not be heard. They certainly fit that description visually: they both wore dumb, happy expressions that seemed to accurately project their terrible awareness of the surrounding environment and people. Eggs had horribly unkempt curly blond hair, and wore a purple t-shirt depicting his namesake. He was busy toying with Matchsticks’s kitchen timer, which every so often made the most maddening ringing due to his manipulating it. He seemed to delight in the cacophony, however, and continued his myopic assault on the patience of others. Biscuits, meanwhile, was halfway into the oven, most likely wondering if he could fit into it. His dark hair was shorter and neater than that of Eggs, but it bore evidence to surviving the occasional conflagration. Biscuits possessed a truly, distractingly abhorrent underbite, and seemed to be perpetually wearing a scorched apron over his collared shirt no matter what the situation. Biscuits baked, as was evident from the consistent burnt smell originating from his and Eggs’s apartment, and Doze wondered if Biscuits simply never noticed that his apron was a constant accessory that he had yet to remove. 

“Ha! They sure look the part,” Itchy retorted, reflecting Doze’s thoughts. “I wouldn’t stay too near their vicinity, though,” Doze warned. “They seem to possess a propensity to somehow break or set fire to anything nearby, resulting in someone, usually themselves, sustaining inane injury. They’re morons, yes, but they are dangerous morons.”

“Not worth it, then. Gotcha. Not sure I’d wanna hobnob with anyone who’s got those faces anyway. And who’s that asshole over there, the guy who keeps looking around with his shifty eyes while holding a fucking _crowbar_?” Itchy pointed towards a taller, narrow-eyed man leaning against the opposite wall who wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His hands were in the pockets of his grey painter’s pants, and situated between his arm and his side was a maroon crowbar. If the word “no” equated to an emotion, this man’s face would be perfectly displaying it.

“Oh, that’s just Crowbar,” Doze replied. Itchy burst into unbridled laughter. “You gotta be fucking joking. That isn’t his actual name, is it?”

“It is what he calls himself, how he introduces himself, and it is what everyone calls him. So, yes.” Itchy kept laughing uncontrollably. Doze continued. “Crowbar is the handyman and assistant to the building’s landlord. I’ll never know why he carries around a crowbar even when he’s off-duty, but other than that detail he’s the most serious, no-nonsense man you will ever talk to. He won’t take anyone’s shenanigans, and he won’t take no for an answer. He most likely comes to these parties just to ensure that nobody causes any major turmoil.” 

“Well, he looks fucking thrilled,” Itchy said sarcastically. “So, what about those guys?” Itchy pointed to a group of two sitting at a folding card table, playing some game of cards. They seemed fully disinterested in the rest of the party. “They look like they’re just torturing themselves.”

Doze squinted. “Hmm, I do not know. One of them appears to be Droog. He’s an acquaintance of Deuce. But the other I do not recognize.” Droog himself looked like he was dying inside. Doze could only guess that he had come with Deuce, as he couldn’t see how someone like Droog could enjoy this sort of situation. But the other man at the table looked positively livid, as if he would rather kill than be where he was now. “Awesome!” Itchy interjected. “Mystery guy. Tell ya what: I’ll go over and have ‘em deal me in, and I can give you all the deets on this other dude later.” Itchy prepared to leave, but Doze stopped him.

“Itchy, I see something that might be of interest to you.” 

“Hmm?”  
Doze brought Itchy’s attention to the other side of the room, where none other than Clover had been watching them for some time.

“Shit. I never saw him,” Itchy grumbled, quickly diverting his gaze. “He’s been looking towards you in particular,” Doze pointed out. “You should give him another chance. At least be polite and say hello.”

“He doesn’t deserve my goddamn niceties,” Itchy grouched, though seeming conflicted. He snuck a glance.  
“... Ah, but damn he’s cute.”  
Doze caught a hint of color in Itchy’s face, which the latter promptly tried to hide.

“Come now, Itchy. Stop agonizing yourself so. It will not help matters to brood and let your bitterness fester.”

“Why not? That’s what you do,” Itchy retorted, unfortunately recognizing the irony in Doze’s statement.

“Well, I am not the one with a weak enough confidence to remain butthurt from a swift breakup with someone who is clearly worth more fight than I am giving.”

“You suggesting I ain’t man enough to get him back?” inquired Itchy aggressively.

“Perhaps I am.”

“Well that’s where you’re wrong, mister! I’ll go right over there right now! You think you know me? You don’t know jack.” After emptying his beer bottle, Itchy jumped out of his seat and strode over to Clover with a front of unwavering confidence. Doze gave in to a slight smile; he had been starting to miss Itchy’s active recklessness.

\---------------------------

“Hey, babe. Nice goddamn night, isn't it?”

“Hm. For someone who took such a vague and unexplained situation so seriously, you sure are persistent,” Clover retorted, raising an eyebrow in that quirky, whimsical way that made Itchy weak at the knees. 

“Well, I'm not sayin’ we don't need to talk. Cause we totally do. Just got a little thrown off, is all,” replied Itchy, grinning confidently. 

“What? The infallible smooth operator was thrown off by little ol’ _me_?” Clover asked incredulously.

“A guy with your charm and looks can be pretty goddamned hard to account for,” said Itchy with a lazy wink. Clover giggled quietly, and seemed to suddenly take special notice of the lively music playing. He locked eyes with Itchy and smiled a mischievous smirk. 

“Itchy… may I have this dance?” he asked, offering his hand with a wink. 

Itchy’s face flushed red-hot. He mentally damned his weak control over such reactions; he did feel a little tipsy. Nevertheless, he took hold of Clover’s small hand, smiling flirtatiously. 

“Hon, I thought you'd never ask.”

\---------------------

Doze felt the need to avert his eyes once Itchy and Clover began dancing. This had nothing to do with any lack of skill; Doze simply felt as if he was intruding upon an intimate activity from afar. Instead he made the decision to slowly sip from his water, eyes fixed upon the ground beneath his seat on the bar stool. 

“Your new roommate, I take it?”

Doze looked up from his water to see a familiar face. Stitch, something of an in-house tailor, had always been one of the few people that Doze felt he could hold intelligent conversation with. He was only a resident, but being retired in his occupation did not by any means correlate to retiring from the craft itself. Stitch was willing to patch up anything the other residents brought him as a courtesy, and he was damn good at it. He also thought it unfair to charge his neighbors, as he had far surpassed his time in legitimate business, making him a useful asset. But few thought of him as only that; despite his “curmudgeonly old man” demeanor he had acquired over the years, most everyone in the building considered him a mutual acquaintance. 

“Yes, that would be him,” Doze sighed. “How, may I ask, did such word reach your ears?”

“Die told me just before I left for here,” Stitch answered. “He had a pretty slashed up coat that he needed patched, which had been pretty sloppily patched by him before by the way, so I did him a solid and stitched up the whole thing. Hence why I'm late. Guess I know why I never see that guy around… just doesn't trust people with his stuff, for whatever reason.”

Doze nodded slowly. “Die tends not to trust any sort of professional. He has quite the plethora of irrational fears…” he trailed off, beginning to wonder what caused Die’s coat to become to slashed up. He only owned one coat, so something had happened between Doze leaving his apartment and the beginning of Matchsticks’s party. 

“Did he say how his coat came to be in such a state?”

Stitch shook his head. “Nope. Just said he’d had a bunch of ’incidents’, as he liked to call ‘em. Again, seems like he prefers to keep to himself. I can respect that, so I didn't push ‘im on the matter.”

“He spoke of my roommate, though?”

“Yeah. Talked about you a lot, actually. Fancies you've been given a bad hand with that guy. That you're the only decent guy he's seen in the entire building. The whole thing seemed kinda indicative of somethin’ to me…”

Doze easily recalled that odd moment, that strange inkling of time when for but a few seconds, it seemed him and Die felt like more than friends. Stitch was an honest enough fellow, but considering he was practically gossiping about his previous encounter with Die, Doze didn't feel that he could share his feelings with the tailor. 

“Well, I wouldn't know anything about that,” answered Doze. “I visit Die occasionally, but we are little more than acquaintances.”

“Huh. If you say so. You seem kinda uptight tonight, something the matter?”

Doze gave a dry chuckle. “I'm uptight every night, Stitch. It's a wonder I ever get any sleep. I'm just always… thinking…”

“That doesn't sound good. Ever considered having a drink? Might calm your nerves…”

“Oh!” Doze exclaimed, feeling a bit awkward. “I don't drink. I don't have much tolerance for alcohol, and besides, I don't really think it's good for you.”

“Well, one shot never hurt anybody!” Stitch said. He grabbed a large bottle of… Doze wasn't sure what, and topped off a nearby shot glass with the liquid inside. 

“Here,” said Stitch, sliding the glass over to Doze. Doze stared blankly into the drink. 

“Well, go on then,” Stitch encouraged. Doze slowly and carefully picked up the glass with one hand. He sniffed at the drink and cringed. 

“It smells awful.” Stitch rolled his eyes. 

“Well, so does coffee! And that's perfectly fine!” 

“Well, um, I don't drink coffee either. Partly because it does not taste good…”

“Ah, shut up and try something new, ya dryshite.”

Doze would remark that trying an alcoholic beverage in general was not “something new” for him, but this statement would only add more truth to Stitch’s insult. 

“Fine.” 

Doze brought the glass to his slips and drank it in a slow manner not at all akin to how one would normally take a shot. This was a more anticlimactic method, but Doze was immediately glad that it was the method he had chosen. Whatever he had ingested, it was very strong. 

“Well?” Stitch asked. 

Doze felt a bit out of focus. Words just seemed to spill out of his mouth. “Um it's… not too bad actually I might be able to um… handle… another?”

Stitch looked a little cautious, but also willing to humor him. “You sure?”

_No_. “Er… yes, yes I believe so… um, please.”

Stitch shrugged. “Okay… whatever floats your boat.”

\----------------------

Itchy was having the time of his life. Clover was a very lively dancer, and while Itchy didn't really know anything about dancing properly, Clover was quick to humor his lack of skill. This seemed to amuse him, and as long as Clover was happy, Itchy could feel the same. However, the same thing had been nagging Itchy ever since he and Clover had started dancing. Itchy pulled Clover in close, his hand on the other’s torso. 

“Is this real?” asked Itchy. “Or are you just keeping me satiated while you run off to seduce some other poor sap?”

Clover surprisingly seemed caught off guard by the question. “I… goodness me. Hmm. Itchy… might I entertain you with a secret?”

Itchy donned a skeptical expression. “Huh. So long as you're not changing the subject…” Clover cut Itchy off by yanking his arm down so that Itchy was at eye level with him. 

“I’ve never really loved Cans all that much. We seem like polar opposites, and I haven’t a clue what we even saw in each other to begin with.”

“Then leave the bastard!” Itchy exclaimed, keeping his voice low as if Cans was in earshot at that very moment.

“Well, as I’ve said before, I do not wish to hurt him. But…” Here Clover showed a bit of a smirk. “He won’t be hurt by what he doesn’t know.”

Itchy returned Clover’s smirk with a mischievous, shit-eating grin. “I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down. So this ‘Cans’ asshole is the one gettin’ satiated, and I’m the poor sap getting seduced?”

“Why yes, Itchy. Though I’d hardly call yourself poor; you could be seduced by much worse.”

Itchy drew closer. “Ha ha. Trying to beat me at my own game? That shit ain’t gonna work with me. I’ve had years of practice with trash talking, both takin’ and dealin’ it.”

“I see. Perhaps you could give me some tips?” Clover asked, giving Itchy a knowing look.

“Sure. Tonight sound alright to you?” Their faces were almost touching. Clover opened his mouth respond when suddenly Matchsticks had to barge in and break their reverie.

“Heyyyy Itchy? Sorry to uh, interrupt you guys, but your roommate… well, you could say he _dozed_ off.” Matchsticks chuckled at his own painful joke. Nobody laughed.

“Heh. What do I care if the bastard’s fallen asleep? Guy’s got straight up insomnia twenty-four-seven. Maybe he’ll be less of a crankypants as a result.”

“Well, he didn’t simply fall asleep. He, er, wet his whistle on a few shots and he’s already down for the count. We’re getting a little worried.”

Itchy shrugged. “So? A few shots won’t kill ‘im.” Clover gently took Itchy’s hand.

“Goodness, we should at least check to make sure, don’t you think?” the small man asked. Itchy felt like an idiot. Now Clover thought he was an insensitive bastard. 

“Yeahh, I guess so. Where's he at?” Itchy asked. Matchsticks gestured. “Same place as before.”

Itchy rolled his eyes. _Of course. Why even ask?_ He marched over with Clover and examined his roommate, who was indeed sleeping. On the stool next to Doze sat some old guy who just looked done.

“Took about three shots. Then he just passed out while mumbling somethin’ about alternate timelines and contrived bullshit,” the old man said.

Itchy took the half empty bottle off the table and read the label. Then he facepalmed and put it back down. “Why the hell did you let him drink Chartreuse?!”

The man shrugged. “He seemed pretty damn stressed. He tried one shot and said he could take another.”

“Ugh. Knowing him, he was probably already drunk by then.” A huge part of Itchy wanted to forget about Doze for the time being, as he already had something so much better to do. But then again, this party was definitely not where memories would be made. Better to only establish a relationship at this point, then get to the good stuff later. Besides… Itchy did feel the smallest inkling of concern for his roommate. Clover seemed to follow his train of thought, and quickly dug a pen and paper from his pocket.

“Here. Seeing as you are rather tied up at the moment, it would most likely be better to get into contact a later date.” Itchy took the piece of paper from Clover and skimmed it; it was a phone number.

“Heh. Will do. I’ll settle for hearing your melodious voice over the phone till we meet again.”

“Melodious? That’s a big word for you.”

“Ah, shut up.” Itchy retorted, hoisting Doze up and onto his back. 

“Need any help?” asked Matchsticks. “I can carry him more easily.”

“Nah, I’ll do just fine. I don’t need nobody’s help,” denied Itchy.

“You sure? I know _fireman’s carry_ ,” Matchsticks offered with a smile. Itchy tried not to drop his roommate out of fury.

“Ugh! Screw this shit, I’m out. Have fun with your shitty puns by yourself,” Itchy grumbled, kicking the door open and storming out. He caught a couple lines of dialogue between Matchsticks and Clover before he left.

“My puns are… terrible?”

“Goodness, no! Don’t be ridiculous. Itchy doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Oh! Thanks. I thought I was giving everyone grief for a moment there.”

\----------------------------------------

Itchy dumped Doze onto his bed unceremoniously as soon as he got back to their apartment. 

“Right, there we go. I am not putting your sorry ass to bed,” Itchy said to Doze, who was still sleeping. A few seconds passed, however, and Itchy still hadn’t left the room. _Ugh, just leave. He’s not gonna freeze to death in that sweater._ But after a minute ticked by, Itchy sighed and took off Doze’s shoes and socks. He turned down the bedclothes and heaved the stout man under them.

“There. That’s as much as I’m gonna do. I don’t wanna see all the sin under that sweatshirt.” Itchy ignored the horrible, alien part of him that disagreed with that statement. Why did that part even exist?

“Hey, uh, Itchy?” came Doze’s voice, rasping and slurring words together. Itchy tried not to chuckle at his uncharacteristic lack of diction. “Yeah?”

“You know when you… when you drink alc’hol and it feels like it jus’ goes right to your heart? Like maybe your lungs’re… pumpin’ a little too much blood?”

“Sure,” answered Itchy, shrugging.

“Well I feel that more’n anything right here as I'm layin’ down… feels as if my heart’s just workin’ away, overclocking… it's the only thing I can feel…”

“Yeah, you'll get that with booze. Just gotta get used to it. Hope that wasn't your first drink,” said Itchy. 

“Oh, no, I don't think so. But I've never had anything like that before… hey, um, did you put me under the covers?” Doze asked, noting his position. 

“Yeah, don't mention it. Doesn't mean nothin’,” muttered Itchy quickly. 

“Well, thanks… means a lot that you didn't just… leave me zonked over a counter. Never considered you t’ be the…” Itchy waited for the end of that sentence before realizing Doze had fallen back asleep. 

He left the room, turning out the light on the way, and made his way to his own bed. Which reminded him…

He dug the piece of paper with Clover’s number on it from his pocket. Smiling, Itchy put the paper aside on his bedside table, kicked off his shoes, and got into bed. He’d call him in the morning.


	8. The Unfit Witness

Doze had a troubled sleep, filled with mortality and visages he only half-recalled as familiar. This was all very fuzzy as soon as he woke up, and was immediately forgotten in favor of his splitting headache. What could have brought this on? _… Oh, yes. I became drunk last night. Acted as a wasted fool… so inane. I suppose Itchy was decent enough to drag me back to the apartment… but did he put me into bed as well?_

This pondering was interrupted by a knock at the door, which Doze realized had been there all along and his mind had chosen not to acknowledge it due to simple introspection. Since Itchy didn’t seem to be getting the door, Doze forced himself out of bed and ambled groggily towards it. The knocking had been growing more frantic, and Doze had an idea as to who it was.

“What are you doing here, Die?” he questioned, immediately choking on his own scratchy throat. 

The disheveled man at the door turned confused and hurt. “Uhm, I’m s-sorry! Do.. do you want me to l-leave?”

“What? No, no,” Doze backpedalled. “I mean legitimately, why are you here at my door?”

Die wringed his hands anxiously. “Well… well, well. That’s a bit complicated. Uhm, would you mind letting me in?”

“Oh, of course,” Doze replied, stepping aside for Die to cross the threshold. “I can make some tea, or coffee, whichever you prefer…”

“Um, tea will be fine. Are… are you alright, Doze?”

Doze rubbed his eye and cleared his throat again. “Decided to idiotically attend one of Matchsticks’s parties last night. Did not end well. But that anecdote most likely pales in comparison to whatever you have to say.”

Doze set the kettle onto the stove and left the water to boil. Die looked unsure as to how he might spatially position himself. 

“You may sit down, if you like. I really do not mind.” 

“Oh… um, I'll sit,” Die decided, taking an anxious seat on the couch. Doze stayed close to the kettle, as he had let the water boil away one too many times. 

“Please, go ahead.”

“R-right. Um, starting with the big thing. I just got evicted.”

“What?” Doze interjected. “On what account?”

“Um, well, I guess I make a lot of noise when doing rituals and whatnot. And apparently that annoys people. Even though no one ever told me. Probably because I'm vapid and unapproachable…”

“No you are not,” Doze denied, rolling his eyes. “So I'm assuming then that you have no place to go. If you came in search of room and board, there is still that couch you are sitting on.”

Die grimaced nervously. “Y-yes, that's part of what I was leading up to. And thank you, very much.”

“Of course.”

“But I think there might be another reason why they evicted me.”

“Really? What makes you think so?”

“This.” Die carefully pulled the white cloth doll from his coat pocket. There were currently no pins in it, but it had obviously been used many times. Doze shuddered at the sight of it, remembering his encounter with… whatever he saw. Die continued. 

“I looked over your sketches (which were, um, really good by the way) and became curious as to what this doll really did. So I experimented, and though it might not seem like long, I was at this for a while. I eventually figured out that if you stick in a pin that corresponds to a person, then you’ll go to a different timeline where that person is dead. Of course there’s a lot of timelines one can explore, and I learned a shocking amount from those timelines about this ’other world’ you saw.”

“Such as?” Doze prompted, noting the boiled water and beginning to infuse the tea. 

“This ‘Felt’ that you heard about is a gang based upon the game of billiards (which explains the appearance of the pins) and each member, these alternate versions of us, have different powers relating to time. Some, like me, don't have innate powers, but rather special items, like the doll. We all technically serve under this currently faceless boss figure referred to as ‘Lord English’, but apparently he somehow has ultimate power which renders us immediately meaningless. There's so much more than that, and I'll make sure to tell all of it eventually, but that's basically the gist. Um, I didn't go on too long, did I…?”

Doze shook his head as he gave Die his tea. “No, not at all. This all just sounds very peculiar. You mentioned the doll may have had something to do with your eviction? May I ask how?”

Die’s cheeks became flushed. “Um, yes, yes of course. So not long after I'd begun the experiments and travels, as in suspiciously soon, Crowbar just came to my apartment and kicked me out. I’d really like to accept the reason he provided me with, but… it was just too much of a coincidence.”

“Well, that may very well have been just a coincidence; at this point we cannot know. But if he intentionally evicted you because of the doll…”

Die shrugged, looking dejected. “I don’t know. After travelling through more timelines than I could count, after learning so much about this ‘alternate life’ we all live, I found nothing explaining why this timeline is the way it is. All other timelines are nearly identical, just with some people missing or a different outcome.”

“Do you know of any way we could seek out more answers?” Doze asked.

Die went back into deep thought. “In this timeline, nobody who normally possesses powers seems to have them anymore. Yet I was still able to make and use my doll, meaning that the items still have functionality. But unlike my doll, none of the other items can simply be created. But any force enacted from outside this timestream would still work, so if something were to enter this timeline (on purpose or on accident) we could acquire the item and hopefully their assistance.”

“But how do you suggest -” Doze was cut off by another knock, this one loud and demanding. Die froze up, his cheeks red with an emotion that didn’t match his face.

“I-i-it’s Crowbar!” Die hissed. “I need to h-hide the doll!” He jumped up suddenly and rushed into the kitchen area, pushing past Doze and throwing open a cupboard. He reached to the far back of the cupboard and put his doll as well as his pins in the back. He then shut the cupboard and hastily returned to the couch, motioning to Doze that it was okay to open the door.

It was indeed Crowbar, who seemed to have been knocking with his namesake. He looked irritated at the sight of Doze, and pushed past him into his apartment without a second thought. He marched over to Die, who was frozen in place on the couch.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Crowbar questioned in an interrogating tone. Die was silent, seeming still in shock, but then began mumbling something that even Doze could not make out.

“What’s that? Speak up, I can’t hear you, freak.”

Doze stepped in. “He will be staying in my apartment until he can find a new one, Mr. Crowbar.”

“Shut up, you ain’t a part ‘a this,” Crowbar snapped, smacking the curved end of his crowbar into his hand menacingly as he turned back to Die. “The landlord wanted me to find somethin’ in your apartment after you left; some kinda weird voodoo doll shit. You wouldn’t happen to know where that is, do you?”

Die shook his head vigorously, and mumbled something along the lines of “... don’t… know what you’re talking about…”

Crowbar raised his crowbar as if to strike Die, and Die haphazardly threw up his scrawny arms in defense. “You damn well know what I’m talking about, asshole! Where the hell is it?”

“I.. um…” Crowbar stuck his crowbar under his arm and forcefully yanked Die to his feet. He then dug into Die’s coat pockets, searching for the doll. Die looked violated, which did not surprise Doze as again, his acquaintance abhorred being touched. Satisfied that Die wasn’t holding the doll on his person, Crowbar unceremoniously dropped him back into his seat on the couch. He turned to Doze.

“It’s here _somewhere_ , isn’t it?”

“As you have previously stated, I play no part in this matter. I am completely lost as to what you are prattling on about, anyway.”

Crowbar scowled, and Doze watched his grip tighten upon the implement in his hand. “Then you won’t mind if I take a look around, will you?”

“Good heavens, you would need a search warrant for that,” Doze pointed out innocently. Crowbar looked angrier by the second. “Landlord’s orders,” he forced out through clenched teeth. “That’s all I need.” He dug in his pants’ pocket and pulled out what seemed to be just a blank piece of paper, handing it to Doze with the utmost seriousness upon his face. Doze cocked an eyebrow and glanced up at Crowbar questioningly.

“It’s in white font,” he grumbled. Doze looked to the paper, then back at Crowbar. He remained in this state for around a minute before slowly shaking his head.

“I’m afraid I cannot take this situation seriously, as what you claim seems horrendously farfetched. In my eyes, you still have no warrant, and no right to search my apartment. Now, pardon my lack of etiquette, but I must politely ask you to leave.”

“On what goddamn account,” asked Crowbar with thinly concealed rage.

Doze sighed. “Simply put, you are irritating me and intruding upon my home. Please, leave.”

“ _Fine_.” Crowbar seethed, throwing the door open. “But don’t be surprised if I come back later, smartass.” Doze did not acknowledge that statement, and Crowbar angrily slammed the door behind him.  
“The hell happened here?” Itchy asked groggily as he showed up in the hall doorway. Die jumped at his presence, then refused to address him. This didn’t stop Itchy, however.

“Ugh, creepy voodoo asshole. The hell’s his problem?” he asked, shuffling into the kitchen to make coffee. 

“He’s going to live with us for an indeterminate duration.” Itchy started angrily at this. “What?! Hell no! Why didn’t you run this shit by me first?”

“Because this is my apartment, and I am not going to refuse an acquaintance which you dislike simply due to his defining characteristics,” Doze answered, letting a saccharine smirk slip on the latter end of the sentence. 

“Screw you! Fine. Whatever. Just keep that creep the hell away from my hair.”

“Only needed… one sample…” Die muttered, irked.

“Well I don’t give a goddamn about your goddamn samples, you’re still a freaky bastard.”

“Um… might… need his help…” mumbled Die, the statement seemingly directed towards Doze.

“Itchy’s help? With what?” Doze asked.

“See, er, I realized that the other versions of us, the ones that have p-powers, still kind of embody them, j-just, um, within a human standard.”

“Itchy has a power in other timelines that may give us an advantage in this one nonetheless?”

“The hell’s all this about powers?” Itchy broke in.

“Yes, as Itchy so eloquently inquires, what is this advantageous ability?” Doze echoed in a sarcastically esoteric manner, a gesture not lost on his surly roommate.

“In all of the other timelines, Itchy can slow time down around him, making him move faster relative to everything else. In simpler words, he’s _really_ fast.”

Doze recalled what the alternate Droog told him regarding the alternate Itchy lying dead on the floor. _Bastard’s fast as hell; likes giving us a hard time._

“Wait, you’re saying I have goddamned _super speed_ in some other timeline?!” Itchy asked. “Why the hell don’t I have that shit here?”

“W-well, now that Crowbar has actively come looking for the doll, I’m beginning to think that my eviction truly wasn’t a coincidence. That doll might be our only way out, and we might be… trapped. In what, I don’t know… this place, this building, this world… may just be a false construct.”

“Hmm. It’s a long jump from Crowbar wanting the doll to our entire world being falsified,” Doze pointed out.

Die stooped over more, looking embarrassed. “Um, well, it’s just a theory. But it would explain why this t-timeline is so different from literally all of the other ones.”

This conversation was then interrupted by an enormous _BOOM!_ that shook the apartment, though it sounded too muffled to have taken place on the same floor. Everyone decided in silent unamity that whatever happened was worth checking out, and left the apartment to seek out the source of the noise.

They soon came upon the first floor, where apartment 13 seemed the obvious culprit, with smoke spilling from the doorway and Matchsticks there already with a fire extinguisher. 

“That’s where Eggs and Biscuits live…” Doze remarked. They came closer, ignoring Matchsticks’s punny warnings about the smoke (“smoke gets in your eyes, you know!”), and peered through the doorway. The sight of the apartment was horrifying. 

Everything was black and burnt, and chunks of debris were all over the place. The three of them were looking in on the kitchen, as was obviously by the appliances, though where Doze supposed the oven must have been was now empty and black and had probably been on fire before Matchsticks showed up. On the floor were Eggs and Biscuits who, it seemed, had ceased to be. Their bodies were as burnt as the rest of the room, and they were not moving or breathing. Looking around, Doze noticed two more corpses, which were far too ruined to even be recognized. _I wonder who was in here with them…_

At that point Crowbar walked around the doorway across from the front threshold, making Doze and Die jump a little bit. They grabbed Itchy and rushed away from the apartment and hid behind the stairwell, straining to hear what was going on.

“Howdy, Mr. Mechanic! Find what you were looking for?”

“... Did I fucking _tell_ you if I found what I was looking for? No? Well, then I probably don’t _want_ to goddamn tell you.”

“Well, someone’s being a _tool_ today,” Matchsticks joked. Crowbar ignored him and walked off. Doze noticed him slip something round and purple into his pants’ pocket as he left.

“Omigosh,” whispered Die. “He has the timer!”

“The purple object?” Doze asked. 

“Yes! That’s Eggs’s item; it lets him go back in time a maximum of one hour, in essence giving him a cloning ability!”

“Why was it in Eggs and Biscuits’s apartment? How did they acquire it?”

“I guess we’ll never find out, now that Crowbar has it,” Die lamented bitterly. 

“Well, let's search the apartment, now that Crowbar is no longer in it,” Doze suggested. “We may find something that he did not.”

Die nodded in agreement, and they reentered the demolished apartment. Doze immediately moved towards the unidentifiable corpses he had noticed earlier, as they had seemed the most out-of-place in the whole situation.

“Eugh, I can see why you and the creep hit it off,” Itchy remarked upon observing this action. Doze ignored him and searched the bodies. He found nothing until moving them both aside, revealing…

“Another timer…?” Die rushed over. In Doze’s hand was indeed yet another timer, a little charred but otherwise in perfect condition and identical to the one Crowbar had confiscated.

“Yes! We can use this one!” Die exclaimed.

“Um, what the hell would we use it for?” Itchy pointed out.

“The only way Eggs’s timer could be here is if a future version of Eggs entered this timeline! Ergo, if we went back the correct amount, we could interact with that Eggs in the past and get answers about this timeline!”

“No idea what any of that shit means,” said Itchy.

“Too bad!” retorted Die, surprisingly bold in his excitement. “Let’s get back to the apartment quickly! Time is of the essence!”  
“Wait!” exclaimed Doze. Itchy and Die paused in their ascent to the third floor. “No, no, keep going, I simply see a chink in this plan.”

“What’s that?” the other two asked simultaneously.

“The explosion. The corpses under which I found this timer… they were us. I did not realize until Die suggested this plan, but… if we blindly rush into this, we could get ourselves killed. Then worse: we would be in an infinite loop. We travel, die, I find the timer again, rinse and repeat. We need to be careful.”

They had reached the door. Die looked crushed. “Then… how will we know where to go?”

“We won’t,” answered Doze solemnly. “The only way we wouldn’t combust would be by -”

“- Pure luck!” Die interrupted, seeming to have an epiphany. Doze and Itchy gave him questioning looks. “Do either of you know Clover?”

Itchy snickered. “Know ‘im? Can’t live without ‘im! We’re pretty damned close, I’d like to think.”

“Then, um, could you go get him? I promise I don’t need to do anything with him, I just need him here.”

“Hah! You his secret third lover or somethin’? Surely he can do better!”

“N-no, you prick! In the other timelines, Clover’s power is that he’s extremely lucky! I believe with him, we will have a better chance of not blowing up!”

“Huh, whatever you say, man. Lucky, huh? Wonder if he tends to _get_ lucky. Ha ha!” At that extremely mature display, Itchy pulled out his phone and dialed in a number, which Doze guessed he had received from Clover the previous night.

“Can Clover actually help us?” Doze whispered. “Is there even a human equivalent to extreme fortune?”

“I… I don’t know,” Die admitted, toying with his doll, which he had gotten out of the cupboard just a minute ago. Doze remembered something.

“If pins represent us, then why aren’t Eggs and Biscuits’s pins in the doll?” Doze inquired.

“I’m not really sure about that either. By all logic, Eggs and Biscuits should be dead. But I was just thinking, what if they didn’t die, but just… woke up?”

A light, tinny knock sounded at the door. Itchy opened it. 

“Hey, babe. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“Anything for you!” Clover giggled. “So, what do you need me to do again?” 

“Just, um, be here. Do whatever. There, um, isn’t much time, so I c-can’t explain everything, but, long story short… you’re here to give us luck.” Doze suspected Die’s awkwardness around new or unfamiliar people was a recurring trait. He didn’t blame Die; that trait was perfectly understandable.

“Oh!” Clover exclaimed. “Well, then, ah, good luck! What are you doing, anyhow?”

“Going back in time…” Die mumbled, twisting the timer back to his guess of where they needed to be. “Doze, um, if you could take my hand…” he added, cheeks turning a trifle pink. Doze obliged. 

“Ooooooh!” Clover crooned. “I never knew you had a love life, Dozy!” Doze’s cheeks reddened to match Die’s. Itchy snickered.

“You are both insufferable, childish bastards,” Doze grumbled dryly. “I cannot possibly see how you would be drawn to each other.”

“R-right, if this works, the next time they’ll s-see us is in a few seconds,” Die said, seeming to ignore Itchy and Clover as a feeble campaign of psychological warfare.

“Do not worry, I trust you,” assured Doze, in spite of the quiet jeers from the peanut gallery. Die clicked the timer into place, and Doze felt that same green energy envelop him as they were pulled backwards through the fabric of time.

\--------------------------

At first it seemed they had landed in an unfamiliar place. But context clues such as the placement of major appliances and especially a gaping Eggs and Biscuits tipped Doze off that they were in the right place.

“How’d you guys get in ‘ere?” Biscuits asked, snapping out of the shock first. Doze and Die glanced at each other. “... Would you believe time travel?” Doze asked awkwardly.

“Well this is perfect!” Eggs exclaimed. “We was just about to put th’ cake in th’ oven when you guys came!” The stocky man pointed towards the counter, where an incredibly uneven cake sat next to the oven. Neither Doze nor Die could find something to say to that.

“Well, don’t just stand there!” said Biscuits. “C’mon, have a sit.” He pulled back two chairs from the kitchen table, and the two, not wanting to come off rude, took a seat.

“I say, Biscuits, seems like no one comes ‘round ‘ere anymore!” Eggs remarked, leaning over the counter.

“Well, we do got a thing with settin’ stuff on fire ‘n burnin’ what we bake.”

“Yeh, but those’re always accidents! If summat caught fire, I wouldn’t hold it against the guy who made it!” An uneasy silence followed that statement. Biscuits loaded the cake into the oven.

“Ya know...it may be ‘cause people think we’re stupid,” said Biscuits.

“Huh? What makes ya say that?” Eggs asked incredulously.

“Eh, I’ve heard stuff… never really listen though, makes me think too much.”

“I know! Maybe these guys know somethin’ ‘bout it!” Doze and Die sat up nervously. “D’you guys fancy us stupid?” Eggs inquired. Again, the two didn’t know how to answer, nor did they feel inclined to. This was mostly due to their shame of assumption, which they had both been previously guilty of at one point or another. Thankfully, this pause was interrupted by the arrival of someone - or rather something - else.

It bore a striking resemblance to Eggs, and predominantly put Doze in mind of the alternate-Itchy corpse he had seen the other day; he possessed the same bright green complexion and fashion, but instead of yellow his hat was white with a purple stripe running through it, the number twelve square in the middle. Doze supposed this was who they had been waiting for.

“Oh! I’m back ‘ere,” the other-Eggs remarked. Eggs and Biscuits stared. “Just what’re you?” asked Biscuits, looking a bit concerned but mostly curious.

“I’m you!” exclaimed other-Eggs, pointing towards Eggs, who started in surprise. He seemed about to ask another question before Doze stepped in. “Excuse me, er… future Eggs. What happened before you um… came back?”

“Well!” exclaimed other-Eggs, scratching his head. “I reckon I woke up in this big ol’ line of beds, where all you’s sleepin’. The Doc was there, an’ he gave me my timer and jus’ told me not to cause any trouble.”

‘W-we were… sleeping?” asked Die.

“Well, um, I don’t rightly know what was goin’ on there really, but it sure looked like it. Biscuits was there too, but um, he din’t really wanna come back ‘ere.”  
“Why are you back here?” Doze asked. Other-Eggs shrugged. “I dunno. I was bored.”

Doze felt as if he and Die had mentally facepalmed in unison. They had been expecting some kind of crucial information, something to give Eggs reason to return, and in their anticipation had forgotten his lack of wits. 

“Are you certain you saw nothing else?” Doze inquired half-heartedly.

Other-Eggs idly ran his fingers along the tick marks of the timer. “Nah, din’t see much of that room after the Doc kicked us out. Suits me jus’ fine though.”

“Wh-who is this ‘Doc’ you keep mentioning?” Die asked. Other-Eggs seemed about to answer when Doze heard something. It took a moment for him to realize, but -

“Die! We need to run!!” Doze yanked Die along with him and threw open the apartment’s front door, and - _BOOM!_

The gas leak explosion threw Doze and Die forward and onto their faces, but they were unscathed. They looked behind them to survey the wreckage. There was no trace of other-Eggs. Eggs and Biscuits were dead. 

“We… survived…” Doze panted. Die helped him to his feet. 

“Now we just stay out of sight until past-us disappears from the present. We’ll need to leave the timer, though.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Doze agreed. Couldn’t doom the timeline. They found a place in the apartment where past-Doze would know where to look, and where Crowbar wouldn’t find it.

“So… what shall we do while we wait?”

“I, um… don’t know,” Die mumbled, blushing ever so slightly. “We could just… talk in my old apartment until then. I’m pretty sure Crowbar won’t be there…”

Doze nodded. “I would like that.”

The two walked up the stairs silently, each tightly gripping the other’s hand, praying they didn’t run into their past selves, or Crowbar, on accident. At this point, it was debatable as to which was worse.


	9. Beyond the Building

True to their word, as soon as Doze and Die disappeared in a flash of green energy, the front door opened and they were back. Itchy’s mind was sufficiently blown, but he made the executive decision to keep his cool.

“Guess it worked?” he asked nonchalantly. Clover lightly whacked his arm. “What sort of question is that? They just time-traveled right before our eyes!” Itchy shrugged. “They did say they’d be back right away.”

“Yes, it worked,” Doze confirmed. “Though the cruciality of the information we received is debatable.”

“Well then, what did you hear? Perhaps we can work it out together!” Clover suggested. Itchy really wasn’t feeling that idea, but he couldn’t deny Clover. “Sure, why the hell not.”

“All right, then,” said Doze. “Since our informant was Eggs, what we heard was buried under a thick veil of idiocy. But apparently, there is a world outside of this one. If the Eggs we talked with was from a short time into the future, that means that once Eggs and Biscuits died, they ‘woke up’ in that other world.”

“Um… al-also, he mentioned that we were all sleeping in a line of beds, um, when he woke up,” Die added hastily. That description sparked a memory in Itchy’s mind. Something was trying to push it to the back of his subconscious again, but this time Itchy pulled back.

“I had a dream like that!” Itchy half-shouted awkwardly. Everyone looked at him strangely. “When Die said all that stuff about the beds it brought back that dream I had once, you know, the one I couldn’t remember,” he explained, the second half directed at Doze, who nodded his remembrance. “It felt like as I was recalling it, something was trying to yank it away from me so I couldn’t remember it anymore.” Die’s expression grew somehow even more anxious.

“Th-th-that could have been an action by an outside force! I-if they control our minds -”

“Die,” Doze cut him off. “Let’s finish our exchange of information, then we may make conclusions.” Die nodded, a bit of relaxed fondness sneaking into his visage. This didn’t escape Itchy, and he couldn’t help but snicker a little. Doze glared at him and continued.

“Eggs also mentioned this figure he referred to as ‘the Doc’, who apparently was present when they awoke. We didn’t receive much information regarding this faceless character, as the oven exploded before we were given an answer.”

“Faceless?” Itchy asked, slowly recalling more from his dream. Doze rolled his eyes. “It is an expression, Itchy. I do not mean that he is literally faceless.” Itchy jumped to his feet. Whatever was messing with his mind was going all out trying to erase what he had just remembered.

“But what if he is?!” Itchy cried. “Before I woke up, I saw a man, dressed in all white, _with no face!_ And I’m pretty damn sure he forced me back to sleep, as in waking back up here!”

Die jumped up as well. “D-did he say anything?” Itchy shrugged. “Somethin’ about I can’t cheat at what I can’t win, I dunno. He had, like, Doze-vocabulary goin’ on.” Die plopped back into his seat; Itchy did likewise. “Can’t cheat… can’t win…” Die mumbled. “So… is this all… a game?” he asked with a horrified tone of voice.

“If it is, then it’s a loada bull that we can’t cheat. How the hell’d we get so far in the first place?” Itchy pointed out. Die digested that statement a moment. 

“Yes.. I guess that’s true… wait. Everyone think really hard. Do you remember what it looks like outside the apartment building? If something just randomly comes to you, it doesn’t count.” Itchy concentrated. It did seem like some prerendered description was being forced into his mind. He tried to think around it, but to no avail. “I can’t,” he admitted, annoyed. “This damn forced description won’t piss off.” Clover nodded in agreement, and even Doze seemed to be having trouble.

“Then… if you can’t legitimately recall… then we’ve never gone out of the building, even if we think we have. And if we’ve never gone outside… who’s to say the outside doesn’t exist?”

“I’ve never looked out a window…” said Doze. “Nor seen one in the building, for that matter…”

“And I can only really remember the parking lot…” Itchy trailed off. 

“Well all we have to do is go outside, then!” Clover exclaimed. As if in direct response to this, the small man’s phone _ping_ ed with a message. He pulled out a purple smartphone adorned with numerous hanging charms. 

“Oh!” he interjected. “It’s from Cans. He wants me to meet him at a nearby establishment for a date.” Doze appeared confused at Clover’s blatancy of this remark, which Itchy ignored.

“So, a nearby establishment? Like, _outside the building_?” he asked incredulously. Doze and Die perked up as the importance of this dawned on them. Die in particular looked crushed.

“But… if something exists out there…”

“- Still doesn’t mean it’s real,” Itchy pointed out. “It was some pretty goddamn spot-on timing for Clover to get that text right as we were discussing how there’s nothing outside. I think that’s worth checking out at least.” Suddenly, another idea dawned upon him. “Heh. Hey Clover, ask Cans if I can come. As a friend.” Clover started in surprise.

“Why, whatever for? Surely you don’t wish to see me feign affection all night!”

“More like why the hell not! Maybe I just wanna mess with your fake boyfriend. Doesn’t matter anyway, seein’ as how this is probably all not real, right?” Clover seemed to be trying to muster up some form of disapproval, but Itchy could see he was intrigued by the idea.

“Oh, all right. I’m game. But you must promise to keep at least some degree of subtlety!”

“As if that’s possible…” Doze mumbled to Die. They both chuckled. “ ‘Least I can admit when I’m into someone,” Itchy retorted. They glowered and withdrew themselves from the situation. Itchy rolled his eyes in response. “Ugh. Get a room.” He turned to Clover. “Well?”

“I asked Cans and he said it’s fine. Are you fit to leave in around five minutes?”

“I’m fit to leave now, if that’s cool.”

“Alright!” Clover stood and Itchy did likewise. “I’ll tell Cans we’re on our way. Only… oh, goodness. I don’t have a car.”

“I do!” Itchy volunteered. “It’s kind of a jalopy, but it works just fine.”

“Oh, lovely!” Clover exclaimed, clasping his hands before him. “That’ll be magnificent. Well, I suppose we’ll see you two in a few hours, or at least Itchy will,” he said to Doze and Die. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” the small man added with a wink. Itchy snickered. “What he said.”

\---------------------------------

The drive was strangely foggy, and Itchy could just see the road in front of them. This seemed a bit suspicious, but Itchy withheld his judgement for the time being. This establishment wasn’t very far from the apartment complex, and seemed stranded in the middle of the sea of haze. 

“Okay, it’s literally called ‘Legitimate Establishment’,” groaned Itchy. “Not making this setup very believable.”

“Really? Let me see!” insisted Clover, getting up on his knees as he could not see over the dashboard.

Sure enough, the small building had a neon sign plastered on the front which read “Legitimate Establishment” in bright, cursive lettering. Itchy pulled into a parking spot at the side of the road and helped Clover out of the passenger side. He pulled open the door and they entered, immediately becoming confused. The building was literally one small room, and seemed to be more of a store than anything else. There was a bored looking clerk toying with a cash register, and a few shelves advertising horns, keys, and salted melons. 

“Why would Cans want to come here?” Clover asked no one in particular, echoing Itchy’s thoughts. Speak of the devil, the door opened once more and a noticeably large man seemed to have trouble getting through. 

“Cans!” Clover exclaimed, going over to the newcomer as he finally got himself over the threshold. Itchy suddenly got very uncomfortable. The man before him must have been twice his height.

“Ah! Good to see ya again, Clover! It gets kinda quiet over at my place without you around.” Cans pulled Clover into an embrace, his arms practically swallowing the smaller man. He then noticed Itchy. “This the friend you were texting me about?” Clover nodded.

“Yes! Cans, this is Itchy. Itchy, Cans.”

“How do, Itchy?” Cans asked, putting out his right hand. Itchy was afraid of the impeding handshake, but he remembered that he was being polite and accepted it.

“I’m just peachy fucking keen, thanks,” Itchy replied, grateful that unlike Matchsticks, Cans was aware of his own strength and gave a surprisingly gentle handshake.

“So… why _did_ you want to meet here? This doesn’t seem like a prime location for socializing,” Clover said.

“Well, that’ll be where you’re wrong,” Cans insisted with a smile, which alerted Itchy to his wide mouth and underbite. Why did so many people have terrible dental work in their building? Cans lumbered over to the register, leaving Itchy in anticipation over whether or not the buttons on the large man’s collared shirt would pop off anytime soon. 

“ _Sepulchritude_ ,” Cans rumbled in a low voice to the cashier. The latter glanced around Cans at Itchy and Clover. “Don’t worry, they’re with me.” The cashier nodded and unlocked a nondescript door at the back of the room which read “employees only.” Cans swung the door open, revealing a dark, downward staircase with a dim light at the bottom.

“Age before beauty,” Cans said jokingly, allowing Itchy and Clover to enter first. Clover chuckled at the statement, and Itchy mustered a polite half-smile. When they reached the bottom of the staircase, both showed similar reactions of surprise. For underneath the legitimate establishment seemed to be an entire bar, with quiet music and even billiards. The last of these seemed to be dominated by Trace and Fin, whom Itchy remembered from the party. There was a nondescript bartender quietly fixing drinks, as well as some signs establishing the limits of how much alcohol could be allowed a single person.

“My goodness!” exclaimed Clover. “It’s a speakeasy!” Cans nodded. Itchy supposed that was the reason for the signs; if alcohol was illegal, people wandering around drunk out in the streets after dark was a death sentence. 

“Hope you’re thirsty,” said Cans, taking Clover’s hand and leading him to the bar with Itchy in tow. “‘Cause this guy here makes the best drinks in town. Hey, barkeep!” The nondescript bartender made his way over to the three as they sat down.

“The usual, please,” Cans requested.

“Make that two,” Clover added. Cans looked surprised. “Clover! You sure you can handle that kinda hard liquor?”

“I can handle anything hard that I’m presented with,” Clover replied in ribaldry. Itchy snickered and Cans blushed imperceptibly. “Well, if you say so. How ‘bout you, Itchy?”

“Eh, I’ll take a daiquiri,” said Itchy. “Real fruity bracer, y’know?” Clover giggled. The bartender silently went off to make the drinks. _Huh. Kind of a poxy barkeep if he ain’t got a personality on him,_ Itchy thought skeptically. A minute or so later their drinks were brought. Itchy saw this as an opportunity to test his theory.

“Ey, barkeep. You got a name?” he asked. The bartender looked blankly at him. “You been working here long?” Again, no response. _Maybe he’s just mute… nah, shut up. It’s weird._ Itchy archived the exchange for later mentioning. 

“So, what’ve you been up to lately?” Cans asked Clover, who indeed seemed to be taking whatever nightmare mix Cans ordered pretty well.

“Ah, you know. Riddles, tea, living life as I do.”

“Ha, riddles. Can’t seem to get a handle on that stuff.”

“Well, let it be known that your skill in riddles, or lack thereof, doesn’t make me love you any less,” said Clover. Cans wore a bashful expression. “Aw, gee. Sometimes I don’t think I deserve you, you know.”

_He doesn’t_ , Itchy mouthed, grinning. Clover playfully waved him off and gave his false lover a kiss on the cheek. “Nonsense, hon. Why don’t you go see what Trace and Fin are up to? Seems like they’re in sore need of being knocked down a peg.”

“Aw, c’mon. We both know I can’t beat those sharks!”

“At least do it for me; I believe in you,” said Clover with a wink. Cans smiled and stood. “A’ight. I’ll try my best just for you.”

“You’ll be a winner nonetheless,” Clover assured him. Cans lumbered off, leaving Itchy and Clover alone. The former took advantage of this, grabbing Clover by his shoulders and pulling him in for a passionate kiss. Clover instinctively pulled away. “Itchy! Are you insane?!” he cried, looking very flustered. “What?” asked Itchy with a mischievous smirk. “He ain’t lookin’.”

Again, Clover seemed to be trying his hardest to reprimand Itchy’s actions, but the Itchy could see he was enjoying himself. “Well… I suppose you’re right. We must be careful, though!” insisted Clover, attempting without success to hide his smile.

“Careful? Barely know ‘er,” quipped Itchy, drawing Clover closer to him. The latter giggled. “Now, let’s watch your fake boyfriend shoot some pool.”

Cans seemed to intimidate Trace and Fin by mass alone, as could be read on their faces as soon as he walked over. Itchy couldn’t really blame them; while Cans was fun to mess with, Itchy was deathly afraid of being caught. 

“Feels like some cheesy rom-com when I’m watchin’ you guys,” Itchy remarked. Clover smiled in amusement. “Yes, it does seem that way, doesn’t it? Probably ‘cause Cans just gravitates towards the genre. I’ve had to sit through a lot of ‘em, with him and his emotions. A little secret he entrusts to little ol’ me,” the small man laughed, laying his head on Itchy’s shoulder. 

“Seems like kind of a sap in general, t’ be honest,” said Itchy.

“Well usually, he’s got to keep up appearances. But with me, he seems to get the need to prove his lack of shame in holding a steady and intimate relationship with someone.”

“Eh, not sure anyone ‘round here really gives a damn. ‘Sides, no one’s gonna talk smack ‘bout a brute like him.”

“Aren’t you? About our relationship, no less?” Clover asked with feigned innocence.

“Ah, piss off,” Itchy retorted, kissing Clover on his forehead before checking on Cans across the room. He seemed to have won, as he looked pretty pleased with himself. Trace and Fin were acting sore, but were doing a terrible job of selling it. _Better to take the smart route in the first place, anyway._

“Clover, I won!” exclaimed Cans, walking briskly back to the bar where Itchy and Clover had resumed their previous positions.

“Brilliant!” replied Clover, embracing the larger man warmly. “I knew you could.”

“‘Grats, man,” Itchy added casually. Suddenly the blonde man became aware of an exit to the ground level: an upward staircase leading to what must be a door. _The hell would a speakeasy have that?_ Itchy wondered.

“I’m gonna go get some air real quick,” said Itchy, getting up off his bar stool. 

“Don’t be too long,” said Clover, smiling.

“We’ll wait up,” added Cans. Itchy gave a thumbs-up and ascended the staircase to a door marked “Exit.” 

Itchy forced the heavy metal door open to an empty alleyway. Well, not completely empty. Adjacent to the door was a tall, built man, almost as tall as Cans, casually smoking a cigarette and flipping the shiniest coin Itchy had ever seen.

“S’funny,” the man said, stopping Itchy from ducking back inside. “Before you came through that door, I was lookin’ out at nothin’ but empty space.”

“What?” asked Itchy, confused yet anxious.

“This alleyway,” the man gestured before him, “I didn’t see it ‘till you entered the scene. It just wasn’t here. Just me ‘n this door in an empty void.”

“Whaddya mean?” Itchy asked again.

“I said what I meant. I’m tellin’ you ‘cause if you’re the reason the alley appeared, that might mean you’ve got some answers.”

“Answers?”

“About this… place, this world, whatever the hell it is.” The man caught the coin in his hand and turned to face Itchy. “It isn’t real, is it?”

“You - you know about that?” Itchy asked tentatively.

“Yeah,” the man answered. “I’ve encountered lots of those empty spaces before. Mostly when it’s just me. When someplace is ‘fully loaded’, as it were, I always see you or your stodgy roommate.”

“Why would that matter, d’you think?”

“Well… lately I’ve seen some folks do some pretty damned impulsive stuff, turnin’ on a dime in the blink of an eye, causin’ drama and all that. Never’s happened with me, matter of fact no one’s wanted much of anything to do with me. Makes me feel like… we’re all in some kinda phony production. Everyone’s gotta act one way or another, this guy’s gotta love this guy an’ hate this guy, et cetera. Maybe I’m just not an important factor, not even to show the world to properly. But you guys, you seem damn important. The ‘main cast’, as it were.”

“Huh. My roommate an’ his freak friend are all over that shit right now. They’re the people you gotta talk with. Hell, we didn’t even think there was anything outside the building ‘till tonight.”

“I’m thinkin’ that’s the point,” said the man. “I looked out my window once, and there wasn’t jack outside.” He seemed dead serious. His whole disposition seemed more bitter than anything else, to Itchy.

“Again, if you got assets to bring to this whole job, then you should take it up with my friends. What’s your name?”

“Quarters,” the man answered, going back to flipping his coin. “There’re others. Guys who see what I see an’ who want to figure out this mess as bad as I do.”

“Well, if this ‘mess’ is as bad as I hear Doze n’ Die babbling on about, then we’re gonna need all the help we can get, I guess. Itchy, by the way,” Itchy added, sticking out his hand. It wasn’t accepted. 

“Sounds like a plan. Just say where we can find you; that’ll be all.”

“Sure. You’ll find us in 33. Just be kinda vocal ‘bout who you are; we got Crowbar on our ass at the moment.”

“Got it. Be seein’ you. Have a good night.” Quarters turned back towards the opposing wall, flipping his coin and puffing away on his cigarette as if nothing happened. 

“Um… kay, bye,” Itchy muttered, going back inside.

_Weird guy._

Cans and Clover seemed to be waiting for Itchy once he came back in. 

“Didn’t keep you guys, did I?” asked the blonde man nonchalantly.

“Well, no,” said Clover, “but it is rather late. I’ll have Itchy drive me, if that’s alright,” he said to Cans, who nodded.

“That’s just fine. My car’s a mess, anyway; wouldn’t want you to see that,” the larger man said with a little embarrassment.

They paid and tipped the bartender, left the speakeasy, and started for the apartment building. The night was still as conveniently foggy as ever, reminding Itchy of the conversation he’d just had.

“So, why did you spend so long outside?” Clover asked, as if on cue.

“Met a guy by the name of Quarters. Apparently what we see, he doesn’t see, ‘cause he’s not important enough.”

“What?” Clover seemed confused, and rightfully so. Itchy wasn’t sure he understood all of it himself.

“I’ll save the big exposition dump for when there’s more people to hear it. ‘Sides, he’s got our apartment number. He’ll probably explain it himself.”

“All right,” said Clover. A small pause followed this exchange.

“...Itchy?”

“Yeah?”

“I had a great time tonight.”

“Heh. So did I.”

_What a night. What a life._ Itchy didn’t want to believe any of it wasn’t real. He remembered what Quarters said: “ _...Like we’re all in some kinda phony production… This guy’s gotta love this guy an’ hate this guy…_ ” Was everything Itchy had with Clover… without a leg to stand on? What if whatever sadist controlling this “show” intended for Itchy to fall for someone else? 

_Doze…_

Itchy gripped the wheel of his car until his knuckles were white. If some bastard was toying with his mind, with his feelings, with his _life…_

There’d be hell to pay.


	10. Ironic Armistice

Doze was glad when Itchy and Clover returned, as it seemed him and Die had gotten nowhere in the past couple hours. Die had become somewhat despondent once it was proven that yes, there was something outside of the building, and refused to acknowledge much of anything Doze suggested as anything of worth or progress whatsoever. This admittedly irritated the shorter man, as while he progressed via lengthy contemplation, he did not wish that said contemplation be in vain. 

“Eyyy, what’s kickin’, nerds?” Itchy asked in his usual grating, arrogant timbre. “...Have you done literally nothing since we left?” Neither of the two on the sofa decided to confirm; Doze supposed they were both ashamed of their lack of progress.

“Goodness, how did we learn more than you simply by going out to a poorly constructed speakeasy?” Clover asked in amusement.

“What did you find?” Doze asked, inwardly questioning the existence of a speakeasy in the twenty-first century. 

“Well, first of all,” Itchy began, “whoever haphazardly tosses these things together is _really_ bad at making all of it believable. I couldn’t see jack on the way there and back, and the bartender had literally no soul.”

Die lifted his head, looking a bit more hopeful. “Y-you mean… what you guys went to was just created to try and prove us wrong?”

“Sure seemed that way,” said Itchy. “But anyway, I think it’s pretty old news at this point that someone is messing with us. But at the speakeasy, I met a guy who’s probably gonna be the biggest help in taking this asshole down.”

“Who?” Die asked.

“His name’s Quarters. I met him outside some bogus street level exit (to an underground speakeasy, ‘cause that makes sense), and he said that before I got there, he was literally standing in empty space.”

Die sat up ramrod straight. “Wh-what do you mean? S-seriously??”

“That’s what I said!” exclaimed Itchy. “It’s the weirdest shit. Apparently whatever stupid contrived drama has happened with us, has never happened with him. In fact, apparently he finds himself in empty space kinda often.”

“Why… why would that be? If whoever is controlling this… this false reality, then it seems contradictory to just leave empty space if the idea is to make us believe that where we are is real,” Die muttered pensively.

“Well, he’s got this notion, based on the fact that the empty space only went away when I showed up, that we’re like… the main characters in some melodrama, and he’s just not as important, so why waste the energy, I guess?”

“Hmm. If we run with this ‘story’ theory, then that would mean that whoever is controlling the story, is controlling us, to move the quote-unquote ‘plot’ along however it is intended to progress,” mused Doze. Die seemed perfectly horrified by that logic. “So… would that mean that this… person, they would be controlling… our emotions, too?” The pale man blushed in a fit of flustered confusion and embarrassment. Doze was also just now running the connotations of his theory through his head, and he could certainly understand Die’s reaction.

“Yeah, that’s about the size of it,” Itchy grumbled, looking particularly irked. “I guess we just need to figure out who this Doc asshole is and beat the tar out of ‘im for messing with our goddamned lives.” 

“You mentioned this ‘Quarters’ would be of great assistance to us,” Doze reminded him. “I’m assuming what you had in mind entailed more than simply further evidence as to the fabricated nature of this place.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Itchy, leaving Doze wondering exactly how short the blonde man’s attention span was, “he said he knows a couple ‘a other guys who’re like him, y’know, in the whole unimportant department. Said he’d show up with these guys eventually; I gave him our apartment number.”

“Then in that case, all we do is wait for the time being.” 

Itchy sighed. “Yyyyup.”

After thirty minutes, which did not seem like a terribly long time to Doze though Itchy seemed stir-crazy after five, a strong, purposeful knock sounded at the door. Itchy walked to answer it.

“You who I think you are?” he asked. A deeper, hardened voice came in response. “I’m thinking so; I’ve got two others with me. Pretty sure we’ve got the right place.” Satisfied with that proof, Itchy opened the door, allowing three larger men to enter the apartment.

The first was most likely Quarters, as he seemed to possess the habit of flipping a coin, which followed the same sort of logic as most everything had as of late. He was the tallest and most broad-shouldered of the three, and his default expression seemed to be that of a tight grimace. Though that visage seemed fixed, Doze noticed his eyes taking in the entire room with great scrutiny and voracity, and the shorter man thought of how rarely he must behold such a solid space. 

The second man was not much shorter than Quarters, and not much less built either. While not appearing as outright cynical as the former, he still looked very serious and for the most inexplicable reason, Doze found himself to be oddly afraid of him.

The third was actually recognizable to Doze, as he recalled seeing him once or twice. It was Sawbuck, who looked comedically out of place next to the much taller, strapping men who had preceded him. He seemed much more unassertive and shy than the other two as well, but similar to Quarters he too was scanning the room as if it were the first existent construct he had seen in some time. Die seemed intimidated by this lineup, at least of the former half of it, but Clover and Itchy both appeared rather unfazed. 

“Right,” the first man began. “For those of you who don’t know, which I s’pose is most of you, I’m Quarters. Guess the rest of the guys can introduce themselves.”

The second one gave a rather surprising grin and a small wave, somewhat palliating Doze’s caution. “Hiya; Hearts Boxcars is the name, but just Boxcars’ll do.” Boxcars looked to Sawbuck expectantly.

The rotund man shifted around a little. “Name’s Sawbuck. Think I might’ve seen you guys around at some point ‘r another.” The others in the room nodded their confirmation. Seeing that pleasantries were out of the way, Quarters addressed the room.

“So, your friend Itchy here’s mentioned somethin’ about you guys lookin’ into this whole fake world deal?” Doze nodded. “Yes. From what we understand, the ‘real’ versions of ourselves are unconscious in the ‘real’ world, and the only way to get rid of this false world lies with this mysterious ‘Doc’ figure, whom we’ve had very little knowledge about. But, in these past few hours, and I’ve somehow only come to this conclusion now, there’s only one person this ‘Doc’ can be.” He lowered his voice, as if afraid the subject of the conversation might kill him on the spot. “The landlord.” Everyone nodded in agreement, Itchy even spouting a “well, that’s kind of obvious,” and Doze continued to feel stupid for not realizing the Doc’s identity earlier.

“W-well, Eggs and Biscuits… they apparently woke up in the real world, when… when they died, right?” Die asked quietly. Everyone turned to the slim man, making him mildly uncomfortable. Nonetheless he continued. “You… you said that the Doc is the only key to getting out of here… but what if all we have to do is…” he trailed off.   
“...Kill ourselves?” Quarters finished. Die nodded worriedly.

“Well, why the hell not?” Itchy asked. “Who’d wanna keep living in a false reality anyway?”

“Don’t have a gun…” everyone seemed to mutter in unison.

“Everyone, stop,” Doze insisted. “Suicide is not an option. It’s a terrible thing to do, and we don’t know that the Doc did not just pull Eggs and Biscuits back to the real world and plant their corpses in the apartment simply to fool us into thinking they were killed.”

“That seems unlikely… but I guess you have a point,” Die conceded.

“I know where we can get weapons,” Boxcars suggested. Everyone turned to him. “Not t’ kill ourselves ‘r anything, but if this Doc guy is strong enough to make a whole nother world _and_ mess with our heads… we’re prob’ly gonna need some protection. Just sayin’. Also I’ve got some friends who could help us out.” There was a nonplussed pause in the room.

“...And why didn’t you mention this earlier?” Quarters asked. 

“I didn’t know shit was this serious!” Boxcars retorted defensively. “And my friends’d think I was crazy if I told ‘em ‘bout everything I’ve seen. Huh… they’d still think I’m crazy…”

“Um… we have p-proof, of the real world,” said Die.

“Yeah?? How?” Boxcars asked incredulously. Die slowly drew his doll from his coat pocket. “Th-this… lets me go to other t-timelines, where… this place doesn’t exist. I-I-I can show your friends that…”

“Other timelines? Hell, why not use _that_ to get outta here?” Boxcars pointed out.

“These other timelines are… not identical to ours,” explained Die. “There are other versions of us, and… and we… are not the same, in these other timelines. It-it just wouldn’t work out, is what I’m saying.”

“Well, if you got proof, then I can take ya over t’ our place, try ta work out somethin’.” Die blushed in anxiety. “U-um… I…”

“I can go with you, if you like,” Doze volunteered. Itchy and Clover made rude silent allusions; Doze chose to ignore them. Die nodded. “O.. okay, that, um, will make it easier.” The rude allusions persisted. “We’ll stay back here, maybe try to map out a plan of action,” said Quarters. Boxcars nodded in acknowledgement. “We shouldn’t be too long, but don’t wait up. Jus’ fill us in when we get back.”

The taller man nodded. “Will do.”

\-------------------------------

Boxcars, Doze, and Die descended to the second floor, stopping at apartment 28. Boxcars stopped a moment before they entered and turned to the other two.

“Say, uh, just as fair warning, one ‘a my friends can get kinda… stabby. This is kinda hard with ‘im, but try not ta push his buttons.”

“S-stabby?” Die asked shakily. He didn’t get a reply, as Boxcars immediately opened the door after finishing his statement, revealing a very dark and lived-in front room. The large man pushed the two inside quickly and shut the door, engulfing all of them in the grim lowlight of the scene. What immediately caught their attention was the piano across the room from the front door, and more specifically the man hunched over it. As the trio got closer, Doze could pinpoint more and more rather foreboding details on the man’s person. He was short and emaciated, and sat particularly forward on the piano bench to allow his feet to reach the pedals. He wore a black shirt, a black jacket, and a black hat which partially concealed the top half of his visage. He was missing an eye, as indicated by a patch and the stitches trailing from under it, and his right arm seemed to be made entirely of metal. He wore an irate expression, as if the piano was the only thing holding him back from untrammelled rage.

“Slick,” said Boxcars in a strangely soft tone, apparently trying to get the man’s attention. The man in question, “Slick” most likely being his moniker, stopped playing, plunging the dark room into a thick silence. He looked up towards the newcomers, and almost immediately put a hand to his face in frustration. 

“Fucking hell…” he grumbled in a low raspy tone. “The hell kinda sick joke is this shit?”

“Slick, these guys have some real important shit you gotta listen to, whether ya like it or not,” Boxcars insisted, folding his arms across his chest.

“I don’t gotta listen to goddamn _anything_ , Boxcars, you ain’t my boss.”

“Well you ain’t mine either,” Boxcars pointed out in an irksome manner. Slick burst into a wheezing, unsettling laughter at this. “Damn, and I thought all this bull finally decided to up and leave me alone. What a goddamn comedy.”

“Ahem, um, Mr. Slick, we require your assistance with a rather crucial matter, and if you might listen for at least an abbreviated duration, that would be great,” Doze broke in. 

Slick eyed him humorlessly. “Huh. I liked you better slow.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Doze asked. Die seemed unsettled by the statement, and fumbled in his coat pockets in a desultory fashion. “Uh… uh, we… you see… um… we have reason to b-b-believe that, um…”

“-That the world we are currently existing in is not a real plane, and in order to dispel of this plane we require a method of dispensing of that who has constructed and controls it,” Doze explained. He thought he saw a flicker of realization flash past Slick’s eye, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. He turned back to his piano. “Blah, blah, science babble. I dunno what the hell you’re droning on about, but it sure as hell ain’t worth my time. Get the hell out of my goddamned apartment; you don’t know how goddamn lucky you are that you aren’t fucking dead on the floor right fucking now.” The hunched man went back to playing, the act now more accurately displaying his mood. Boxcars seemed to be getting angry as well.

“Goddamn it, Slick, this is a serious issue. I know it sounds crazy as hell, but you’ve gotta believe these guys.”

Slick scoffed. “Why the hell do _you_ believe these assholes, Boxcars? The hell’d they do to make you so goddamned gullible?”

Boxcars pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. The muscular man marched over to Slick and yanked him up off of the bench, much to the chagrin of the latter. 

“Because I’ve seen some shit lately, shit that don’t make no goddamned sense!” shouted Boxcars. “I knew you assholes wouldn’t believe me, and now look where we are. I’ve seen Droog just flip on a dime with you. One moment he pissed and the next he’s all over you; I’ve never seen fucking _anything_ between you guys, so what the shit is that? I’ve seen shit disappear, Slick, I’ve seen just black emptiness at the end of the hallway and halfway down the stairs. Explain that, why don’tcha? Explain!”

“Boxcars, you’re goddamn nuts!” Slick shouted back. “I have no goddamned idea what you’re talkin’ about, and the only way any of that mad-ass raving could make any sense is if you’re off your goddamned rocker!”

“You sayin’ I’m crazy?!” thundered Boxcars.

“Maybe I fuckin’ am!” Slick yelled, pulling a knife out of his jacket pocket and stabbing Boxcars in the wrist, causing the larger man to drop him. Doze and Die watched in frozen silence, each ready to run should any of the current violence be directed at them. Suddenly Droog entered the room, apparently alerted by the commotion. “What’s going on here?” he asked in an even tone.

“Slick is bein’ a stubborn bastard,” grumbled Boxcars.

“Boxcars is fucking mental,” hissed Slick.

“Those both tell me nothing - oh! Doze. Good to see you. Why are you here at our apartment?” Slick rolled his eye and sighed as loud as humanly possible.

“Hello, Droog,” Doze replied cordially. “We are here because we have evidence pointing to the possibility that the world we live in is falsified. It does sound rather farfetched, but if you were to allow us time to explain everything, you would certainly understand how we might have reached this point.”

Slick seemed pretty confident that Droog was not going to take any of what Doze said seriously, and if he were honest, Doze shared that viewpoint. 

“...Well, yes, it does sound very unlikely,” said Droog. “But I am willing to hear you out, if you truly believe you have enough evidence to convince me.” Slick looked as if his head were about to explode. His hands were balled into tight fists and trembled dangerously. 

“ _What in the goddamned hell, Droog?!!_ ” Slick exploded, getting right into the taller man’s face. “The Droog I know wouldn’t take that bullshit! The Boxcars I know wouldn’t goddamn go to _you_ assholes of all people before talking to people he actually goddamn trusts! Why does this asshole even want you bastards to succeed?! This makes no goddamned sense!!” The last half of this outburst was directed towards Doze and Die, who were both very much afraid for their lives.

“Um… this… asshole?” Doze asked, forcing out his words slowly and cautiously. Slick glared murderously. “You goddamn well _know_ who he is.”

“The… the Doc?” Doze asked cautiously. Slick gripped his knife so hard that his already pale knuckles blanched completely white. “You really do hate me, don’t you? Just wanna see me writhe in agony as you take the only thing I goddamn care about away.”

Doze recoiled in confusion. “Wh-what? I… I don’t -” All of a sudden, Droog and Boxcars both clutched their hands to their chests at the exact same time. 

“My… my heart…” gasped Droog.

“F-feels like… it’s pounding… faster’n the speed ‘a light…” Boxcars choked out. Slick slipped his knife back in his pocket and rushed over to the two.

“Guys… guys… god, I’m so sorry… I didn’t… fucking… want this to happen…” Slick muttered, head in his hands, words quaking…

“S-Slick… why-” Droog didn’t finish his sentence. A pair of muffled _pop_ s could be heard in unison, and the two fell over, lifeless. Slick turned to Doze and Die slowly, his eye red and shining with tears. “You goddamn satisfied?”

Doze opened his mouth to try and say something, but Slick was already upon him, forcing him up against the wall with a knife to his throat. “ _ARE YOU GODDAMN SATISFIED?!!_ ” Die let out a cry of terror, watching as Slick slowly pushed the blade up against Doze’s neck. “I… I don’t… get it… why did that happen?!” Doze asked frantically. 

“Goddamnit!” Slick shouted. “I thought you assholes _didn’t_ have your shitty powers here! My friends just _died_ right in front of me and I have you up against the fucking wall and I fully intend to slice your goddamned throat in the next thirty seconds! Does _any_ of that shit register in your slow-ass brain?!”

“So you _do_ know everything we do! More than that, even! Is that what the Doc was afraid of?” Doze inquired.

“Afraid? That’s a laugh. He put me here with full goddamned intent that I’d be the only one here who remembered _everything_ ,” Slick hissed, not relenting the pressure of his knife on Doze’s throat.

“But… why…” Doze croaked, beginning to feel the blade press into his skin.

“Won’t fucking matter to you. You’ll be goddamned dead.” As Doze reflected upon how he might have handled the situation better and whether or not he’d wake up in the real world, and Slick was too caught up in what he seemed to deem revenge, neither of them noticed what Die was doing until the gun he’d taken from Droog’s body was trained directly onto Slick’s back. 

“B-B-Back away from my friend, y-you _prick_.” Slick dropped Doze from the wall, and the shorter man fell into a heap. He lowered his knife, and slowly turned to face Die, who looked absolutely paralyzed with fear. 

“Well, look at that. The pansy who plays with dolls finally grew himself a goddamn backbone. You had to be a goddamn creep and take Droog’s gun, though, didn’t you?” Die blushed but didn’t answer. “G-go over and… and sit on the couch. D-don’t do any...anything else.” Slick begrudgingly did as he was told. With the gun still trained upon the man in black, Die helped Doze to his feet and brought him over to the chair in the sitting area, and sat on the couch opposite to where Slick was, stilling holding him at gunpoint.

“So are you assholes like a thing now, or -”

“Sh-shut up,” Die hissed.

Doze cleared his throat and rubbed it gently, feeling a thin scrape where the blade had been. “Why did the Doc put you here with all of your memory?”

“Huh. He made this entire goddamn building just to screw around with me,” Slick answered. “Said that I’d have to take whatever shit he threw at me in here, and if I squealed… he’d kill my Crew.”

“Your Crew?” Doze asked.

“Y-yes,” said Die. “Um, Slick is the leader of-”

“Shut the hell up, Die. I can fucking talk about what me and my now-dead friends stood for.” He turned back to Doze. “So you assholes are the Felt, right? Right. So goddamn right it hurts. I fucking pity you bastards sometimes. Just kidding. We are… well now we goddamn _were_ thank you very much, the Midnight Crew. Droog, Boxcars, Deuce and me. A much more classy and also badass gang who’ve taken you morons down timeline after timeline. Apparently. That’s what that asshole Crowbar always said.”

“Do you normally have powers, like we do?” Doze asked.

“Don’t need ‘em, never have needed ‘em. You guys suck so bad that it ain’t a problem. ‘Specially you. It’s just a fucking riot that you’ve got all the chops in here.”

“Why is that?” Doze asked. Slick burst out laughing. “Do you not even goddamn know what your powers _are_?”

“No, Die knows what they are… he’s used his doll to travel to other timelines, which is why we know as much as we do.”

“Oh, this is just goddamn rich, I say. You don’t even know what you’re fighting to get back to.”

“What do you mean?” Doze asked, turning to face Die, who was looking very, very guilty. Slick looked him right in the eye as well, uncomfortably putting him into the spotlight.

“Uh...Um, well, uhum. Y-you know how… Itchy’s power is to slow down time around him, making him very… very fast?” Doze nodded. “Well, um, um, your power… is… the exact opposite. You have the a-ability to slow down time, but… only for y-yourself.”

“Meaning you’re slow as hell,” Slick abridged. “All the goddamn time. Dare to dream, huh? Real world ain’t lookin’ so appealing now?” 

Doze sat in thought, not registering Slick’ subsequent jabs. This certainly explained a lot. And he could understand why Die would keep such a thing from him; he could be tempted to remain in this false reality, this place where he could live something resembling a normal life. And he was. Resentment was crawling at his brain, trying to worm its way into his judgement. Die had lied to him. _No, not lied_ , Doze told himself. _He simply withheld information. Though if I asked, I’m sure he would not have given a straight answer. Nevertheless, it’s still better to live freely, to express of one’s own accord, than to be a puppet for someone else._

It had been five minutes. Slick was starting to look bored. “I do not care who I am in reality. Anything is better than this awful place,” Doze finally answered. His emotions disagreed with every part of that sentence. But this was no time to be selfish. Die grew a bit distracted at Doze’s lack of wrath, and let the gun in his hand dwindle for just a second, allowing Slick to jump him and wrest it from his possession. Die screamed, and Doze grabbed a candlestick holder off of the coffee table and bashed Slick over the head, hoping not to kill him. Fortunately, he still seemed to be breathing.

“Come on, we must get him back to our apartment,” Doze insisted. Die broke away from his shock and helped Doze hoist Slick between them, one arm on each shoulder, as neither was strong enough to carry him alone.

“We will return for weapons later,” said Doze. “We already have our hands full.”

“Wh-what about them?” Die asked, gesturing to Droog and Boxcars’s corpses. Doze sighed; he wasn’t sure he would ever forgive himself for that. “Leave them.”

On that note, the two left the dim apartment, squinting in the light of the hallway.  
“Um, Doze?” Die asked cautiously.

“Yes?”

“Are… are you really not… mad at me?”

Doze shook his head slowly. “No, no, I am not. I understand your logic, though I am not sure I would have done the same. I am simply… conflicted, right now, though I shouldn’t be. This is not about me. And though my greed is trying very hard to influence me right now, I am stalwart enough to reject it and continue viewing this situation as it is. So, do not worry about me, Die. There are more serious matters at hand.” Die nodded jerkily.

“O...okay. If you say so. J-Just… whatever you’re feeling, you… you can tell me.” Doze nodded. He knew that. He trusted Die. However, with what was going through his head at the moment… Doze hoped that in their darkest hour, he could still trust himself.


	11. Eviction

“So let me get this straight,” said Itchy. “Our brilliant plan here is to try to defeat this asshole… and there’s no way to goddamn beat him?”

“Meh, not that I fucking know of,” grumbled the newcomer, who had been introduced as Slick. “Much as I goddamn hate to admit it, I’ve never even landed a shot on ‘im.”

“Wait, if you haven’t even managed to hurt ‘im, how do we know he can’t be beaten?” Sawbuck asked quietly. Slick seemed to be holding in laughter at that statement, for reasons Itchy couldn’t guess. “That’s the thing. He’s always gonna know what you’re gonna fucking do. He knows fucking everything.”  
“That makes zero sense and makes several other points have just as little consistency,” Doze pointed out. “If he knows ‘everything’, then he’s known of our activity all along. If what we are doing jeopardizes this world, then he would have neutralized us as soon as we began.”

“B-but if he kills us, we wake up in the real world,” said Die.

“That’s the other thing,” Slick sighed, rolling his eyes. “He’s all-fucking-powerful too.”

“All right, now this actually makes zero sense,” continued Doze. “If he is omnipotent, he could have taken our memory, as he did in the first place, and none of us would be the wiser. When one has that much power, execution is not the only option.”

“Then he must be letting us do this for a reason,” mused Quarters. “What we need to know is why.”

“Well, why not ask him ourselves?” Clover asked with a smile. “He may be ready for us… but we’ll be ready for him. And though he holds perhaps infinite power, we still outnumber him. With our seven minds against his one, we should be able to outsmart him, omniscience or no!” Almost everyone nodded in agreement, Slick left skeptical and Doze too deep in thought to react.

“Let’s get on over to Slick’s apartment, so we’ve got some arms,” said Quarters, standing. “Again, real sorry about your friends, Slick. They didn’t deserve that. No one does.” Slick’s features hardened but he made no reply. Itchy still hadn’t a clue as to what went down exactly, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to pester an angry man with easy access to knives.

Slick’s apartment was very dark, and since Itchy was not the type to tread lightly he tripped twice before he even crossed the front room. There were two dead bodies in the middle of said room, which Itchy guessed were Slick’s friends, and with permission Quarters transported the corpses to the couch, since Slick could not lift them himself. The apartment actually contained an entire closet full of weapons, causing Itchy to wonder why such an addition was allowed in the first place.

“Pick whatever you goddamn want, I guess,” grumbled Slick. He seemed irritated by the idea of sharing his and his friends’ weapons with whom he had very clearly established as his sworn enemies, but without weapons, no one was really all that useful. Only one of them had any degree of remarkable brute strength, and whatever the hell powers they had in the real world were completely void. 

Quarters grabbed the largest gun he saw, an impossibly huge and scary-looking minigun, which seemed pretty fitting. They’d need heavy artillery, after all. Sawbuck chose a shotgun and a revolver, the latter of which he stored in his belt. Both Doze and Clover chose revolvers, and Itchy had an idea that they didn’t plan on using them if they didn’t absolutely need to. Die refused to choose a gun at all out of paranoia, as he could not handle one, but upon persuasion he reluctantly picked a machine pistol.

“Pretty sure almost none of us even remember how to use a gun,” Itchy pointed out. “Plus, even an idiot can handle one of these. All you gotta do is shoot stuff.” Doze pinched the bridge of his nose, and seemed to have completely given up telling off Itchy at this point. 

Itchy chose a pistol and a knife, as he wanted to stay light. While not as fast as he probably was in the real world, he still relied on his speed first and foremost in any combat scenario. Slick grabbed probably five different variations of knife, including a ballistic, which Itchy was sure would come in handy at some time or another. Everyone seemed fairly satisfied with their arms, so Quarters decided to move along.

“ All right, if everyone feels confident with all this, I say we make our way to the Doc’s office.” Everyone nodded in agreement, though Die still looked completely out of his element.

The party made their way down to the ground floor, thankfully not running into anyone, as that would require them to invent some excuse as to why they were lugging firearms around. Die still kept his gun as hidden as possible, however, as if some invisible person was constantly supervising him. 

“The hell are you scared of?” Itchy asked the pale man, who jumped at the question and subsequently blushed in embarrassment. “Um… well, you n-never know…”

“Considerin’ we’re about to fight a guy who knows everything, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was watchin’ us right now,” Sawbuck defended. Die grew even more paranoid at this. “Don’t worry,” the portly man added quickly. “If he is watchin’ us, it isn’t like he’s gonna do anything. He sure hasn’t done jack so far.” Sawbuck capped off this statement with a reassuring smile, and Die looked a little less paralyzed. 

They approached a door, simply labelled 00. Though he didn’t want to admit it, Itchy was feeling very anxious. Everyone else seemed to feel the same way: it was like they were all collectively holding their breath, so as to not suck in the poisonous tension which made the air thick and dry. Doze took a deep breath, and knocked upon the door, slowly and methodically, Itchy’s heart beating in perfect synchronization. A heavy silence, and then…

“ _Enter_.”

Doze slowly pushed the door open and everyone filed in, trying to look as lucid as possible whilst holding dangerous weapons. It was evident no one was really looking forward to fighting. Except maybe Slick.

The man at the desk did not seem human. Well, no one in the room was human in real life, apparently, but even as a human, the landlord had a very uncanny appearance. His skin held no pigment, and he wore a white suit which blended all too well with it. He had short, close-cut white hair, resulting in his bright green bowtie being the only part of him to break the monochrome of white. His eyes were dull, and his entire face seemed as if every muscle was permanently inactive. He looked to be slightly older than middle-age, and possessed a thin frame. He sat as stiff as a board, hands folded pleasantly on the table before him. 

“ _Well, now. What might be your domestic plight? I must apologize; if you are consulting me upon this matter directly, then my custodian must not have solved your quandary in a satisfactory manner._ ” When he spoke, the landlord’s mouth did not move. Nothing seemed to move, for that matter, to indicate he had spoken at all, though it was clear the statement had come from him. Itchy felt thoroughly disconcerted by this.

“You know very well why we are here, Doc,” Doze replied dryly. 

“ _Now, now. Let us not stand on formal titles and distance ourselves. You may refer to me as Scratch._ ”

“I don’t care what your name is,” said Quarters. “You’ve been toying with us for who knows how long. In all that, people like Sawbuck and me have been left in just… nothingness. You can see how that’d tick a guy off.”

“ _I can see many things, Quarters. Though I must admit, I did not predict that any of you would prove clever enough to break my world. The arrogance that comes with omniscience, I suppose._ ”

“This doesn’t have to come to a fight,” said Clover. “All we ask is that you take us back, please. You’ve had your fun. I doubt you’ll find much more satisfaction now that we know the truth.”

“ _But I have not had my fun quite yet. This will most certainly escalate into a fight. But is that not, in and of itself, entertaining? Besides, I am not alone._ ” Out of the inaccurately dark shadows behind Scratch came Crowbar, as well as a woman which Itchy had not seen before. But apparently, Slick had, as he looked about ten times as indignant as usual.

“Should’ve fucking known you were workin’ for this bastard,” Slick hissed.

“Hello to you too, Slick,” the woman replied evenly, red lips turning upward ever so slightly. In terms of color scheme, she seemed the polar opposite of Scratch. She wore a wide-brimmed black hat, and a long, tailed black trench coat with accents of bright green. She was in possession of an elegant cigarette holder, which she took a drag of every so often. Her sharp, narrow eyes were scanning the scene with great contemplation, and when her gaze fell upon Itchy for but a moment he felt as if her eyes had pierced directly into his soul.

“ _So, we shall fight. But… this cramped office will not serve as a sufficient arena, methinks. I only wish for my adversaries to be as comfortable as possible whilst we battle. After all…_ ”

Suddenly, it seemed as if a bright green fire had burst into existence upon Scratch’s person. The walls around them exploded into an empty, almost electric expanse of that same bright green. Scratch rose out of his chair, and phased directly through his desk as it disappeared from existence as well. They all stood upon a large chunk of the ground, which was the only corporeal object remaining. 

“. _.. I am an excellent host._ ” 

Everyone seemed to claim one of the three to fight, though Die was still sufficiently freaked the hell out. Quarters and Sawbuck were ganging up on Crowbar, and Slick made a beeline for the new woman, leaving Scratch for the last four. Itchy was briefly distracted by his observation that Crowbar had looked as surprised as everyone else when the building had fallen away. Did he not know…? Well, Itchy couldn’t worry about that now. He had some crazy super-powerful being to deal with.

“ _Fight, number one. Or have I usurped your gumption along with your speed?_ ” Itchy clutched his knife tighter and cracked a smirk. “You sure you even took away that, Doc?”

“ _Yes. I am completely sure. I am omniscient._ ”

“Ugh. You’re worse than Doze,” Itchy cringed.

“ _Hmm. Yes, what an observation. Perhaps I should fraternize with your slow counterpart instead_.” Once Scratch had turned away after this statement, Itchy immediately tried to shoot him. But the bleached man appeared to phase out of existence for a moment, allowing the bullet to pass through and hit nothing. Slick really hadn’t been lying when he said he’d never landed a shot on him. Itchy would have to find another way. The doctor’s attention became focused on Doze, who readied his gun but kept it tight to his side.

“ _... It is unlike you to turn to violence as your primary solution, especially when that method was proven ineffective seconds prior to this moment._ ”

Doze clenched his jaw. “Apparently I have been doing many things outside my character as of late.”

“ _Indeed. It is very strange that you would want to return at all, considering your permanent handicap which renders you mostly inactive._ ”

“This solution benefits everyone collectively. Besides, I would choose indefinite lethargy over a fabricated reality in any situation.”

“ _Hee hee. What other situation would be presented besides this one? And would you? Here you have friends. You are listened to. You have an identity which relates to who you are as a person. Why would you wish to return to a reality where you are simply known as unclever and dull-witted?_ ”

“Why are you even doing this? I fail to see what you receive out of this ordeal which benefits you. Apparently Slick was placed here deliberately, but I have almost never seen him. Why contain us here as well if there is no reason to?” 

Suddenly, the inert, rigid features upon Scratch’s face twitched and morphed into a mischievous, condescending simper in the most jerky and unsettling way. “ _Because I like games. And I like to have fun. Clean, honest, monotony-shattering fun. If you only knew what the world is like in that limbo between the start of the alpha timeline and the release of our master._ ”

“Saying words and phrases that mean nothing to me will not sway my judgement. If anything, I will only become more anxious to escape.”

“ _Then listen to sense. You all have relationships here. Functional lifestyles. Hopes and dreams. Outside this space, the only thing you have to look forward to is death. Well, that is all the others have to look forward to. But your ability allows you to outlast the others. To watch them all die. Knowing that your grief is unreciprocated, as they care not for the one who cannot even engage in conversation. This is what you are fighting for. Slick was correct before you came. Any relations developed here… gone. Lost in a greater world where your importance is exponentially reduced._ ” Doze looked to be honestly conflicted. Itchy supposed he could see why: whatever Scratch was rambling on about sounded like a huge bummer. But Itchy knew Doze. He felt a weird mix of sympathy and annoyance when hearing his roommate’s answer.

“My stance remains the same. It seems inane to repeat myself at this point,” the stoutish man answered, staunchly holding his ground. Him and his logic. If Itchy had been told what Scratch was dishing out, he would have discarded the cause altogether. Meanwhile, the doctor in question looked particularly dangerous. Itchy inconspicuously moved closer in case things got too hot to handle. Itchy caught a rare glimpse of that raw fear which lurked behind Doze’s eyes as he slowly brought his gun into a position to fire.

“ _... Hmm. If you will not listen, if you will not obey…_ ” Scratch snapped his fingers. Doze dropped his gun and clutched at his chest. “ _... You are only in my way._ ” The dark-haired man fell to his knees and finally forward onto the ground, face frozen in a state of disturbance and regret; a state which, it was evident, would never fade away.

\------------------------------

It was dark. Was that because the room was dark? ...No. A crack of light. A crack which slowly grew wider. The darkness was perpetuated by his eyelids. Doze could see bright green above him. He wondered if he could sit up. It felt as if he was being opposed by a large weight. 

… Wait. Green. Doze was in the real world. In… the Manor. And there was no weight. There was only himself. Hindered by time. He forced the action of sitting up upon himself. His arms moved but an inch into a supportive position. Then another inch. Then another. Scratch had neutralized him all too easily. _Stupid._ He had not taken into account… that he had a physical advantage in the manufactured reality. 

_… Too hasty. Ha._

\-----------------------------

Crowbar was a tougher nut to crack than Quarters and Sawbuck had previously assumed. He anticipated when they were going to fire surprisingly well, and was no poor shot with his submachine gun.

“What exactly are _you_ gettin’ out of this, anyway?” Quarters questioned, dodging out of Crowbar’s line of fire.

“Paycheck, probably. I work for the landlord. It ain’t a pretty line of work, but someone’s gotta do it.”

“And the world jus’... collapsing like this is totally normal to you?” Sawbuck asked. “As well as the fact that the landlord kinda jus’... psychically communicates?”

‘Well, that’s just none of my goddamn business,” the rusty-haired man retorted, swiftly reloading his gun.

“You’re not curious or anything? Like why Scratch has been lyin’ to you, playin’ around with your mind? Bet it’s his doing that you aren’t flipping your shit right now,” Quarters pointed out.

“To be honest, I don’t really give a damn. I’ve been trying to keep you assholes in line twenty-four-seven, havin’ to deal with your goddamn idiocy every second of the day. From what contact I’ve had with even a couple of you, there’s no goddamn way I’m defecting from my boss to join some paranoid motley crew of morons with guns.” 

“Okay, that’s irrational as hell,” Quarters grumbled. “First, we don’t even have to goddamn prove to you that all of this is complete bullshit. Even your ‘boss’ said and did stuff which indicated this whole place is fake as hell. Second, you’re the idiot if you can’t see that you’re trapped under this guy’s thumb. He’s keeping you nice and obedient with empty promises and statements that don’t mean nothin’. Where the hell’s the logic in that shit?”

Before the conversation could continue, an angry yell could be heard which sounded distinctly like Itchy. Quarters, Sawbuck, and Crowbar all turned to towards the noise.

“YOU GODDAMN ASSHOLE! THAT”S NOT FUCKING FAIR!! THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, BITCH?!!”

The reason for this outburst, it seemed, was… 

“No…” Sawbuck trailed off. “Gosh, no…”

“Sawbuck! Look out!” Quarters shouted, wildly trying to get his gun into position. Crowbar had taken advantage of the distraction. A handgun, which he had apparently kept hidden under his shirt until this point, was pointed squarely at the back of Sawbuck’s head. His submachine gun was trained on Quarters in case he tried anything. 

“Boss!” Crowbar called. Scratch turned slightly towards his subordinate. “Can I kill him?” he asked, nodding towards Sawbuck. 

“ _Hmm… I suppose. He is too weak and afraid to try anything._ ” As soon as the okay was given, the trigger was pulled. No pause. Neither Quarters nor Sawbuck had any time to react. The rotund man went down in a spray of bright red almost instantaneously. 

\---------------------------

Sawbuck’s eyes flew open and drank in the monochromatic landscape around him in a manner which was frantic, confused, and dazed altogether. He was on a bed, in a line of beds, in a really fancy green house with a bunch of clocks. He put together where he was.

“D-Doze!” he stuttered frantically, jumping out of the bed and jogging down the line as fast as his body would allow. As his memory promised, the short man was second from the beginning of the line. He seemed frozen in a state of sitting up, eyes wide open and full of irritated remorse.

“Oh, gosh, Doze,” Sawbuck lamented. “How could you get yourself in such a predicament? You’re so smart and stuff! … Well, I guess I can’t really blame you. Scratch kinda cheated. What a jerk! Don’t worry, I’ll help you get - huh?” The large man became distracted by a nearby noise. Crowbar was waking up.

“Agh!” he interjected, sitting up at an incredible rate. His eyes settled on Sawbuck. “ _You_.” He dug his crowbar out of his jacket and rushed over with murder in his eyes.

“Crowbar, don’t! If you hit me, I don’t know where we’re gonna go, but it sure isn’t gonna be here!” Sawbuck cried. Crowbar kept coming. “I… I don’t wanna hurt you, boss! Please remember!” Any second… no. Sawbuck couldn’t stand by and let himself be abused and sent off to another time. He fished a handgun out of his jacket and pointed it at his superior, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“Crowbar… I won’t kill you, but… if you don’t stop and think for one moment… I will shoot you.” Sawbuck ignored the trembling in his arm and fingers, and willed himself to remain resolute. Crowbar blinked a couple times, trying to think his way around the situation. But eventually, a sense of realization seemed to take place within his drawn visage. He lowered his crowbar. Sawbuck kept his gun up just in case. 

“...What the hell nightmare did I just wake up from.” Sawbuck heaved a sigh of relief. “The Doc had you under his control. I’m guessin’ Quarters killed you, an’ that’s why you’re here.” 

“Hmph. Bastard. Toying with my goddamn mind. Making me a goddamn fool…”

“Crowbar, he’s still there, in that other place. If we don’t do something, all the others are gonna be stuck in there forever!”

“Huh. Serves those idiots right. Wish you and Slowpoke over here didn’t make it, though…” Sawbuck started angrily. “C-Crowbar! Why’re you being such an… asshole?” he interjected, ending reluctantly as he still feared Crowbar’s wrath. Crowbar turned to him. “What do I care that those morons are out of my hair? Now I don’t have to deal with them anymore.” Sawbuck sighed. He’d have to appeal to the other’s apparent narcissism, unfortunately, if he wanted to get anywhere.

“You know… the Doc might kill us later.”

“Come again?” Crowbar asked tentatively.

“Well, now that we’re out, we probably can take ‘im out from this end. Seein’ as he doesn’t want that to happen…”

“...Fine. Let’s find this asshole. I wanna wreck his shit anyway, seeing as he made a goddamn puppet outta me.” Sawbuck smiled. “Great! Glad we could compromise.”

\--------------------------------

“Guessing you’re just here for the shits and giggles too, yeah?” Slick grumbled, knives in a position between offense and defense. Some people died, or got transported, or whatever. Slick didn’t care. He just wanted her.

“If you want to call it that. I was becoming so dreadfully bored at the Manor,” Snowman answered, adopting a look of pseudo-distress. “Besides…” Her lips curled into a seductive smirk. “You’re cute when you cry.” Slick ground his teeth angrily. He hated that his cheeks could grow red and hot.

“ _Bitch_ ,” he spat.

“I’m aware,” she retorted playfully.

“Hey. Here’s a goddamn question. If the graveyard-stuffing green torsos don’t have their shitty powers, do you?”

Snowman cocked an eyebrow. Slick hated that she had an eyebrow to cock. “Would you believe me either way? Scratch still has his. Who’s to say he didn’t allow me mine?”

“Because you can’t goddamn live with that power. You’ve gotta be walking on fucking eggshells all the time, cause one stray shot is all it takes.” Snowman laughed. “Come now, Spades. We both know that isn’t true. It’s so exhilarating, to be able to enter a room of violent psychopaths like yourself, and to have everything stop for fear of ending life as we know it. My power creates _fear_. I live for that fear. I live for your fear. Am I not more attractive to you because I am untouchable?”

“Feh. Who ever said you’re attractive?”

“Ha! Your human face betrays you. Is this not a fine likeness?” she asked, gesturing to the body Scratch had created.

“Not my type. I seem to remember you bein’ a little shorter, too.” Snowman’s smile fell into an irritated scowl. Great. It made her look uglier. 

Suddenly, she took hold of her black inches and before Slick could react, she had him wound tightly beyond escape. She reeled him in close, so that his working eye was inches away from her cigarette holder. She grinned. The expression aroused Slick and irked him at the same time.

“Hmm… I think I might see something in your other eye,” she murmured. Slick wished that sweating didn’t exist. His eye was watering from the smoke. He hated that too. “You… wouldn’t… _dare_.”

“Would I?” she whispered. “I’m not sure myself. Your eye looks simply dazzling in the firelight…”

“Piss off.”

“Well, you certainly aren’t helping yourself with that attitude,” Snowman quipped, whipping her lash off of Slick, letting him fall off-balance to the ground. Before he could get up, she put a foot to his head, digging her polished heel into his cheek. “I will say I’ve missed this. You’re just so much fun to mess around with…” Slick managed to fish a knife out of his jacket. He quickly stabbed Snowman in the ankle, which seemed to surprise her. He drank in the shock as he forced himself back to his feet. She examined her bloodied ankle.

“I would be more careful if I were you…” she said teasingly, though her eyes told a different story. Something along the lines of _stab me again and you all die_. Shit. Maybe she did still have her power. Slick didn’t let that fear show, though. She’d have a field day with that. The infuriating heat hadn’t left Slick’s cheeks, and the evident heel-imprint probably wasn’t helping.

“Hey Slick!” called an infuriatingly familiar voice, barging into the scene.

“Piss off, Iggy. She’s mine. You assholes don’t even like chicks,” Slick hissed.

“Ha ha. Listen here asshole, Scratch over there literally won’t shoot me. Seriously. If I don’t dodge his shot, that shot doesn’t get fired. What I’m saying is we make some kinda distraction, then you use your crazy shooty knife to kill me so I end up in the real world. Cause I’m useful and all that. If I wake up, it’s over for him. This hellhole is busted, we all go back and it’s fine and dandy, sunshine rainbows, happy shit. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down?” Itchy asked.

“Okay, why did you say all that shit in front of this bitch who works for Doctor Asshat?” Slick retorted, pointing his knife at Snowman to emphasize the point. “This is why I fucking hate you idiots.”

Itchy adopted a comedic look of realization… almost sarcastic in nature. “...Huh. Well, how ‘bout that shit?” he asked, throwing up his arms in an exaggerated manner. All of a sudden, a particularly loud gunshot was heard and Itchy fell onto his face, a bullet wound in the back of his head. Clover held the smoking gun, looking devastated but satisfied. Slick stared in disbelief.

_… Son of a bitch._

\-----------------------------

As soon as Itchy awoke, he could feel time rewinding. _Shit!_ He remembered quickly, and concentrated hard, fighting the reversal with all his might. His vision grew yellow a moment, and time, slowly but surely, came to a stop. Itchy heaved a sigh. But he was holding against the timestream still; if he let his guard down for even a second, it was over. He got out of the barren cot he was in and quickly got his bearings. Everything seemed warped and shaky, two powers grappling for dominance over the timeline. He had to hurry. 

He tore through the mansion, looking for a weapon. He had guns, but they were all empty. The first promising room he came across was one of the game rooms, where sticks were all lined up on a rack, next to the table for table stickball. _Huh, wait. It’s pool, isn’t it? Whatever. I’ll worry about it later._ Itchy grabbed a cue and took off again. Good a weapon as any, he supposed. He came across Crowbar and Sawbuck in a hallway; it seemed they had been looking for Scratch too. Oh, well. Itchy thought hard. He’d been to Scratch’s office. Its location was in his head somewhere, but it was shying away from his subconscious. _Come on, brain. Help a guy out. We’re out of that shitty place; surely you can fight harder than that…_ Itchy tried to concentrate whilst still holding time in place, and… there! It was only for a moment, but Itchy had remembered. He sped off in the right direction; there was no time to lose.

He approached the door. It was a much darker green than the rest of the place. When he walked in, the office was empty. But something glowing under a curtain caught his interest. He yanked the curtain off; there was a large window, leading to what looked like another building altogether. Itchy cautiously stepped through, cue ready.

It seemed he’d entered into a young girl’s room. He jumped at seeing the young girl in question, almost losing concentration. She had grey skin and horns, and Itchy somewhat recalled hearing about her kind. He hoped she wasn’t there to hinder him, but then she knocked a finger against her temple and pointed to the stopped clock on the wall. She was helping him. Great. Itchy gave an awkward thumbs up and continued.

After trying many doors and failing to find the right room, Itchy finally found the place he was looking for. Bright energy flashed through the crack under the door. Itchy gingerly pushed it open, and found himself in a very posh parlor area. On the opposite side, concentrating on a stupidly small and old-fashioned television monitor… was Scratch.

_Heh. He’s like four feet tall._ Indeed, it seemed that Scratch had altered his human form so as to not be so diminutive. Other than that everything looked the same, sans the large cueball in place of his head. Energy was crackling off of him. The monitor was distorted, and he was too focused on seizing the timestream to deal with Itchy. The green man raised the cue over his head, never feeling more alive than he did in that moment.

_Alright, asshole… let’s break some heads._

_**CRACK!** _

\-----------------------------

The ground shook, and Clover nearly lost his footing. Scratch looked distracted and… in pain?

“ _Ugh… fool. How could he -_ ” Clover, Quarters, and even Die took the opportunity to pepper the Doc with bullets, not hitting his head but shredding his body. Except instead of blood, stuffing began falling out of the holes. All three were thoroughly disturbed. Scratch began to shudder, and clutched at his skull. “ _No… it is not yet time… much is to be done… before our master is released._ ” 

“Give up, Doc! We’ve practically killed you at this point, and I’m certain Itchy’s given you quite the beating!” Clover exclaimed. Die nodded his agreement, though he seemed too frazzled to form words.

“ _Hmm. I am inclined to agree. I must admit I am surprised. You are not as much unremarkable cretins as I had previously assumed. Fine. You win. If you wish this all to disappear…_ ” Scratch’s hands glowed with that green energy, and seemed the only tense, active part of his body, the rest hanging limply above the ground. 

“ _... Then it never occurred to begin with._ ”

All was bathed in a flash of green, then white.

Then all was silent.


	12. Epilogue: A Day in the Life

It does not feel as if anything has changed. Perhaps that is because I no longer change. Is there any sense to be made in those previous statements? Doubtful. 

No one listens to me. Per the norm, really. Why should they waste their time? Though with what I have been considering, that question may also be readily answered. From those who have halted their pseudo-crowded lives to humor my… ramble, as it were, I can discern that I am the only one who still recalls. Hm. Another use for an otherwise irritating and tragic hindrance to an average existence. It would seem that whatever methods were employed to render the others none the wiser is simply taking longer to affect me. Much, much longer. 

This has much in common with the space in which we were previously imprisoned. Everything is redundant, every conflict is a minor debacle sprung from a source which in reality could very likely produce much more complicated and unsolvable scenarios. But I suppose whoever the “Doc” of this world does not need to try as much. Perhaps in this reality, we are all akin to Quarters, Sawbuck, Boxcars…

Oh. It would appear Slick has infiltrated the manor. This happens routinely. If one of us is struck down, it is never a crucial loss; the Doc simply pulls another of us from a nigh identical timeline. We no longer deal in the pesky feeling known as remorse.

I cannot help but theorize that there is an intentional trans-universal method to this madness. 

I can hardly do anything but theorize these days, in these long hours which are not so long to me. Everyone else lets me be. Most likely because I only serve as a source of ironic amusement. This has always been true in this passive scenario. They still laugh. It is funny, that I do not move. Or speak. It is hilarious, that if one were to surprise or injure me I would cease to react, only to spontaneously double over in a violent emotional paroxysm at an agonizingly lethargic pace hours after the fact. 

Ha ha. 

The romantic melodrama continues. With how our courtship functions, this is to be expected. I suppose the layman may wonder if the attempted relation between Itchy and myself has carried to reality, if this is indeed reality. 

…

It has not. He has no patience for me. For anyone, really; he even ceases to torment me verbally, as he knows that I will not immediately convey disturbance and give him the satisfaction he wishes to experience to begin with. 

…Well. Someone has certainly lived up to his name. I suppose I should feel pity, or sorrow, or grief. Later. 

Anyone else is superfluous, as they were in the false(r?) construct. The only purpose to present these characters is for aforementioned melodrama or comedy. Sounds rather familiar. 

…Seems he has met his match. I am fairly certain he would have appreciated that statement, particularly from one with publicly lackluster cleverness such as myself. 

I feel pushed aside. That is a feeling which I have experienced on multiple occasions, and yet now that I have seen what existence in the moment can be… I cannot be satisfied with this stasis any longer. I do not mean to act selfish, however, nor am I hinting that one should patronize me. Everyone else has been content. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the two. Ha ha.

…In following their target, they seem to have left trails of their own. Tactical blunder. Have I attachment? We will see. 

Was it a good decision? To forsake a physically better existence for one of mental freedom? …Hm. I would not call my mind free. It floats lazily within an almost gelatinous liquid, within a strange alien cranium covered with an unconventional pigment and texture. How easy it is to imagine that lurid shade being stained by its candy-red complement, spurting as some erratic geyser of oil in a pool of water. See, when one has all this time to think, that is, when one forsakes the idea that their time is in synchronization with everyone else’s, one may construct these unnecessary yet literarily pleasing metaphors from which one may glean a particular meaning, even if there was originally no meaning to be found. Quite similar to life. See, even I am susceptible to such extraneous analysis. 

…Too fast. Did not look, did not perceive the impeding threat, alas, that arrogance which tells the body that it can overcome any obstacle by outrunning it. Untrue. Untrue. Un...true. Um.

Did I require companionship? I do not know. I felt a certain connection to Die within that nexus. A trust. We were each of us strange. Esoteric. A “happy” pair of weak misfits, though here at least Die has an advantage. That connection has expectedly dissipated. Die expresses a despondent hatred towards all of us. I had wanted to visit. That dark room with its boarded windows and antique splintered dressers, the drawers filled with… most likely nothing. I have only been once. So I recall. But I have done well enough on my own. Truly. I have my own thoughts. That is all I need. All I need.

…Wrong side. How convenient for the assailant. 

For myself, how I function, convenience has been a necessity. Even back there. I have an admittedly infuriating propensity to, when given a topic or problem requiring mental activity, to sit inert and contemplate the solutions, the possibilities, the logic behind our existence. Which seems self-explanatory to me, as I was there. Anyhow, when one’s cognitive processes function as such, it is more desirable for all corporeal solutions to exist within quick and efficient reach.

…Oh. If many are gone… then there is no longer a tailor. 

A series of planets, organized in a circular formation. Why not a triangle is anyone’s speculation. A single pocket. A ticking clock. It is required. Even if it is not requested. Do not worry, there is a ruined planet which can hold your unwanted subordinates. They will be fine. Products of a programmed reaction would never know the oily, iron taste of determinism. 

What a bloodbath. What a massacre. Which means… five left. And two will not yield. 

Was that cramped, manufactured space meant to make us feel as if we have purpose? Independence? A life? Or perhaps it is simply what Scratch said. _Clean, honest, monotony-shattering fun._ And as ironic as that line is, only now do I appreciate it. It did shatter monotony, if this was all that was conspiring before the space’s creation. Could Scratch not still take my “power”? Without changing my form? Probably. This conservation of supposed omnipotence is directly in line with his character. Hmm. I suppose when we realize that there is a greater world beyond the false construct we exist within, we tend to think ourselves as larger-than-life as the world itself. Assumptions. Disappointment. Regret. I of course feel none of these things. Yet.

Slick has captured me. I am bound to a chair. I will not attempt to move or escape. What is the point? No matter what, I will never succeed in escaping. He takes out that pair of cards which together function as a radio. He tunes it. There is naught but static. He speaks into it as if there were someone on the other end. Boxcars, crack the safe. Deuce, find Clover, he's got to be around here somewhere. Droog, watch out for Cans. But there is only static. He stills refers to the Crew as four. He holds arguments with no one. He carries around all four decks of cards, and uses them accordingly. I am certain that he is in staunch denial of that deep, buried part of himself that understands the insanity and insecurity behind this gesture; after all, Slick does not listen to anybody. What an intriguing character study. What a glorious spectacle to die to.

He begins interrogating me. About what, I cannot perceive. I cannot care. I do not answer. He runs the blade of his Occam’s Razor across my face. I perceive the blood. It is warm. I do not feel pain. He forces his horse hitcher into my abdomen. Hmm. No matter. He begins to grow irritated. He is asking me a question. Do I remember? He must wait for a duration, but I eventually send my confirmation. He asks if I remember the sickening wet pop of Droog and Boxcars’ hearts as they breathed their last, if I remember his blade on my human throat. Ah.

I do. I apologize. Slowly. He barely keeps his patience intact. My vernacular is insincere to his ears. It serves no purpose but to further incur his wrath. 

…It would seem my grief has caught up with me. Warm, large tears roll down my face and mix with the blood from earlier. Everyone is dead. Not just their bodies; those can be replenished. But that rare form, that humanity which only that controlled scenario brought out, is gone forever. I communicate this. I cry slowly. It sounds asinine, at that ridiculously low pitch. I will eternally detest myself for the pain which I indirectly caused Slick… that is not a hyperbole. Though he is violent and unaware of the consequences of any of his actions… he loved his Crew. They were the only true allies who remained in his eyes. He never even saw Deuce in his last moments. This is also communicated. Slick does nothing. He stands, contemplating what he should do, I would think. 

…

…

…He has left the room. 

I am still bound. But Slick is gone. He has left me alive. 

I suppose Scratch will bring everyone back in a minute or so. …Hm. Did Slick truly show mercy…?

…Debatable. I am still here, after all. 

This is not to say that I wish death upon myself. How terrible. How unnecessarily drastic and macabre. I simply wish… to return. You see how one might interchange between the two. As much as I am loathe to admit, thus proving Scratch’s point, I crave the contrived, illogically based conflicts of what we left. It broke the chain. I was heard. I had a multidimensional role. I was alive.

Now I feel deceased. Similar to my compatriots. I feel as if a greater person is bobbing in some imaginary ether, unable to break through the wall of unimportance. Bear in mind, this is indeed a feeling. I pessimistically doubt its actual existence. I always have been one who considers the proverbial glass half-empty, though that persona is carefully buried as well.

So here we are.

Waiting. 

Spending our patience on the hope of purpose.

…

Do not worry.

I have always been very patient.

**~~*~~THE END~~*~~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This my first time contributing to a fandom in like... ever, so I'd love to hear what you guys think. I know this fandom in particular is kinda dead, but I still love these characters and I put this out a couple years late with the mindset that other people do too. I have a few more unfinished stories for this fandom which I may or may not post, but if you guys really want to see more, by all means let me know!


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